


Behind blue eyes

by maxwellandlovelace



Series: Behind blue eyes universe [1]
Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-29
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-05-21 12:52:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 89,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6052294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maxwellandlovelace/pseuds/maxwellandlovelace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Katniss Everdeen is a hard working Ph.D. Student with her mind set on getting her degree. But on the inside she is trying to cope with the loss of her family. Then she meets Peeta, who makes her see things in a different light and after years of struggles she feels hopeful again. But Peeta seems to suffer from a painful past as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> So this is my first dig at writing anything like this, so please be gentle=)
> 
> Disclaimer: Suzanne Collins owns The Hunger Games. I just play with her characters. All mistakes are mine.
> 
> Contains direct and revised quotes from The Hunger Games books and films.

_Wednesday_

 

It's a really ugly blanket. It's this greenish yellow slime color and made of some fleece material. I have been staring at for I don't know how many days straight and that's the only way I can describe the color. It's probably seen better days.

 

I listen to the sounds of the respirator. It could have passed for someone who is breathing if it weren't for the occasional beep from the machine who controls her lungs and monitors her heart. In and out. Peep. In and out. Peep. It's taunting me with its regularity. Knowing that her body is supposed to do this on its own, but now is at the mercy of the hospital and its staff to make it through the day. _But not for long._

 

I hold her left hand in both of mine. With my right thumb I rub soothing small circles in her palm as if trying to console her. She doesn't feel it, but right now it's the only thing keeping me from completely loosing it.The blanket covers her body up to her chin; the only parts that aren't covered are her head and the hand I'm holding. I wonder how many people have stared at this hideous blanket, holding a loved one's hand, hoping for them to wake up.

 

The thought of looking at her face terrifies me. If I do, I don't know if I can hold it together. But I owe it to her. To look at her. To _see_ her. So I brace myself, take breath and turn my gaze to her eyes. They're closed but move beneath her eyelids; it looks like she's dreaming. She's not. The doctors said that this is normal, muscles contracting or something like that, I wasn't really paying attention. All I could concentrate on was the lifeless form lying under that fucking ugly yellow blanket! Frustration and sadness are mixing and fighting for attention in my mind. Frustration, because I'm so powerless and can't change this. Sadness, because I've accepted it.

 

Something wet lands in my hand and I realize I've been crying. I quickly dry the tears from my face. _You can't do this now!_ Instead I keep looking at her eyes.

 

“Please open your eyes,” I whisper even though I know that's not happening. _I just really want to see your eyes!_ Her blond hair is shoulder long and you could see that someone has been taking care of it, brushing it and putting it in a braid.

 

The draft from the door, startles me and pulls me from my thoughts and I look up. In the door opening I see the person that reminds me of a third emotion: anger. They have the same blond hair but hers is pushed backwards in a pony tail. She wears the same oversized hoodie as yesterday and her eyes are raw from crying. I just want her to leave.

 

But she has every right to be here, perhaps even more so than me. So I don't say anything. I just stare at her, doing my best to put up a blank face, but judging by the turmoil in my head I'm probably not doing a very good job. But at this point I'm to exhausted to care.

 

She looks at me apologetically and opens her mouth to say something, but she must think better of it because she closes it again, as if changing her mind. Instead, she just sits on the opposite side of the hospital bed, mirroring my position. We're both quiet. It's an uncomfortable silence but I'm still thankful for it because I'm really not in a talking mood. I've said everything I want to say.

 

The hours fly by faster than I expected. Then again, what _did_ I expect? I don't even hear the knock on the door I've been dreading since I got here. The hand on my shoulder wakes me from my trance and I see a pair of brown eyes looking down on me. It's Dr. Paylor. _No!_

 

“Just a few more minutes,” I try to bargain and my voice breaks. But I know it's pointless. They've already postponed it once because of me.

 

“I'm sorry.”

“I know.”

 

They switch off all the alarms so they won't go off when they turn off the machines. Like I would care if it's beeping or not; I've been hearing it for four days straight. It's the silence I fear. They unhook everything and after that the only thing left to do is wait.

 

I hold her hand and continue to rub circles on the back of it. With my other hand I stroke her cheek. It takes longer than I expected but I am still unprepared when it happens. _Hell, how can you prepare for this!_ Her chest stops moving and I no longer feel her pulse under my fingers. She lets go. So I do too.

 

 

_Sunday_

 

The funeral is held at the local church and it is completely packed. I'm sitting in the row in the back, closest to the door. It provides a sort of comfort, knowing that I could leave almost unnoticed if it gets too overwhelming. I could have been seated in the front but I prefer the anonymity I get in the back row. Besides, I would just be feeling eyes staring holes in the back of my head if was sitting there.

 

I don't know anyone in this room and really I couldn't care less. The only person I would have cared about is long gone, lying in a wooden casket close to the altar. A lot of people give their eulogy. I was asked if I wanted to say something as well, but declined. What _could_ I say? The only words I could form right now are bitter and harsh. The frustration I felt a couple of days ago has given away to anger. I don't know if I can ever let go of it. For every stranger, standing by the photo of her, giving their speech, the suffocating feeling that started when I got here just keeps escalating. I grab the bench and hold it with such force it hurts. Even then, I don't let go, like physical pain is the only thing keeping me somewhat sane.

 

As soon as the service finishes I rush to the door as soon as I can, thankful I got here early enough to park close to the church. I'm not staying here a second longer than have to. I have no need for people I don't know giving me their condolences and pretending to care. When I open the door of my SUV I hear footsteps approaching. I already know who it is so I turn around and look her straight in the eyes. I see her pain, but I cannot feel sorry for her.

 

“There is nothing you can do or say right now to change anything, so save yourself the trouble!” I get in the car. “I'm done,” I say in whisper. Then I close the door and leave her on the parking lot.  
  
After a while I have to stop. A familiar mix of anger and sadness is boiling inside me and is threatening to surface. I try my best to suppress it, my grip on the steering wheel tightens and turning my knuckles white. I find a small secluded dirt road and pull over. Finally, I let it out. My hands are crossed on the top of the wheel and lean my forehead on the back of them. I'm grateful no one can hear my sobs and cries as I break down in the solitude of my car. When my throat is raw and I have no more tears I start the car again and drive away. _I will never come back here._

 

 


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so overwhelmed by all of your reviews and messages. Thank you so much! I appreciate everyone of you! A special thanks to papofglencoe for all your support and for polishing this up for me! You are amazing!
> 
> Disclaimer: I still don't own The Hunger Games. That work of art belongs to Suzanne Collins.

_Years later_

 

I force myself to keep looking down on the trail passing under my feet. I know I'm the only one running here at this time. It's just after lunch hour, and those who don't have to work usually stay inside, not bothering to try to soak up the last of the late August sun before fall. The road under me moves at a steady speed, and I concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. It's the only way to push away the fatigue that is taking its toll on me. Next to me, Sanders is running at the same speed, and although he wants to go faster, he keeps my pace. He's a three-year-old Bernese Mountain Dog and my best friend.

 

That's when I see my house. Knowing that this torturous run is almost over, my steps feel a little lighter and I can actually listen to the music in my ears. The last fifteen minutes have been too tiring to even try to keep the same beat as the base dunking through my earbuds. It was Finnick's idea, really. He says it always keeps him going at the gym, but it just doesn't work for me. I never run for the purpose of running; it's just a great way to clear my head.

 

This week has been a really stressful one. As a second-year Ph.D. student they usually are, but this one was intense. I had to finish a paper and submit it for peer review by Wednesday and yesterday was a conference I was required to attend. I wasn't expected to give a presentation, but a lot of the participants had interesting research that overlaps the field of my thesis. That, and I soon have to defend my Licentiate thesis, so I've been pulling a lot of all-nighters these last couple of weeks.

 

I stop on the porch to sit down on the bench and look out over my front yard. The neighborhood consists of maybe fifty small houses connected by one road that only leads here so we don’t have a lot of traffic. I got mine through the university, which has a deal with the landlord so that it was pretty cheap. Thanks to this agreement most of the people who live here have some sort of connection to the university. From students to lecturers and retired professors.

 

I'm just about to open the front door when I hear the Marimba tone from my phone. I glance down at it and see Annie's face light up the screen. She is married to Finnick, and although _he_ is one of my closest friends, I've managed to form a pretty solid friendship with his wife too. I swipe my thumb across the screen and answer.

 

“Hey Annie, what's up?” I say as I put the key in the lock and open the door. Sanders slinks in before me, and I use my feet to kick off my running shoes.

 

“Katniss, I have an emergency!” she exclaims. “Yesterday, me and Finnick went to that seafood restaurant on Main Street, you know. I told him that the shrimp looked kind of fishy and warned him not to eat it, but as usual he didn’t listen to me, and now he's got food poisoning.” She finally takes a breath and continues. “I'm so mad at him for not listening to me, but at the same time I can't resist that puppy face and...”

 

“Woah, calm down, that's way too information at once!” I interject. She has a tendency of babbling when she's upset or stressed. “What does any of this have to do with me?” I walk into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water and take a sip.

 

“We were supposed to go to this thing tonight and now he can't go.” She pauses, like she is waiting for me to connect the dots. Then realization dawns on me.

 

“And now you want me to come with you?” I ask, hoping I'm wrong.

 

“Please? I think you'll really like it!” _I doubt it_.

 

“What kind of thing is it? I'm really not in the mood to go partying.” I had planned to stay in tonight. Cooling down after the week with some Netflix and chill. _Real_ Netflix and chill.

 

“It's an art exhibition. A friend of mine is showing his paintings. We can leave after an hour, I just really want to go. I have been looking forward to this for weeks! But I don't want to go by myself, and I think he's single so maybe… you know.” I can almost hear her smirking on the other side of the line.

 

“First of all, just because _I'm_ single, it doesn't mean I'm currently looking for anything. I'm happy the way things are. Second, I will come with you, but please don't play matchmaker!” She tried that once by setting me up with some guy from her work. Annie is a sculptor and Marvel was one of her models. He was nice and all, but we didn't click. We went on a couple of dates, but that was it.

 

“Cross my heart! And thank you, I really appreciate it,” she says sincerely, letting out a sigh of relief. “And by the way, just because you are happy the way thing are now, doesn't mean they can't get even better. Don't close the door before you know what's on the other side.” She is right. Deep down I know that. Annie is a little absent-minded at times, but sometimes she surprises me with her powers of observation. I usually avoid big social gatherings because I don't see the point of spending time with people I have no intention of ever seeing again.

 

“I'll keep that in mind! What should I wear?”

 

“It's not a super fancy event, but maybe a dress, if you have one?”

 

“You know I have _one_. You were the one who talked me into buying it,” I deadpan. A couple of months ago when we were in town, she persuaded me into buy a dress. I think pants, or maybe sometimes a skirt is enough, but she convinced me that you never know when you might need a dress. And apparently, I need one now. “Alright, I'll inaugurate it tonight!”

 

“Great!” she chirps. “I'll pick you up at seven!”

 

“Okay, see you then!” I confirm and hang up the phone.

 

Apparently I have evening plans now. I glance at the clock on the kitchen wall. 2 pm. There is certainly no rush yet, but I obviously need a shower after my run. I cross the living room where Sanders is lying on the couch. I give him my best scowl because he knows he's not allowed on the couch. He jumps down, but I know that as soon as I leave he'll jump right back up. When I reach my bedroom I pull my shirt over my head as I enter the bathroom. I toss the rest of my clothes in the hamper and get in the shower.

 

As the hot water runs down my body, getting rid of all the sweat, my mind starts to wander. _Don't close the door before you know what's on the other side._ Do I really do that? Maybe I am afraid of trying new things out of fear of it blowing up in my face. I certainly haven't dated in a while but it's not an active choice. I just haven't met a guy that I find worth pursuing.

 

I was nineteen when my sister passed away, and not long after that I started dating this guy, Darius. We had gone to school together and bumped into each other occasionally. At a desperate attempt to try to calm my trembling nerves I ventured to the city park, but it had the opposite effect, and I started to panic. I found a large tree and used it to try to shield myself from the outside world. Then I started crying uncontrollably. I couldn't stop. The tears just kept running, and I couldn’t stop sobbing. Darius found me there and managed to get my crying under control. He knew what had happened to my family and offered his comfort. We became friends and not long after, we started dating. He helped me through the most difficult part of my life, and for that I will always be grateful. But I never loved him. I thought I did, so we stayed together for a year before I ended it. We parted ways as friends and agreed to stay in touch, but I haven't spoken to him since.

 

When the tips of my fingers start to wrinkle, I turn the shower off. I wrap my robe around me and take a towel from the hanger and swirl it around my head. I sometimes think that maybe if I had tried harder to maintain my relationship with Prim she would have still been alive. If I had seen seen the signs maybe I could have prevented it.

 

The knock on the door breaks me from my stupor, and I quickly put on a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt. As expected, Sanders is lying on the couch again but jumps down as soon as he notices me. The living room window gives me a perfect view of the porch, allowing to see my neighbor standing at the door, looking over the front yard. His clothing is disheveled and his gray hair is ragged and uneven. I kick away my shoes I left at the door and open it. He turns around and his gray eyes meet mine.

 

“Hey, neighbor!” Haymitch greets with a smile. He used to work at the university as a professor and is officially retired, but I see him on campus from time to time. Maybe he’s lonely; it doesn't seem like he has a lot of company. At least, I never see anyone enter his house. He was the first one I talked to when I moved here after Sanders escaped to his front yard.

 

“You're in a good mood!” He usually isn't, so he probably wants something. “What can I do for you?”

 

“Can't a neighbor visit without having an agenda?” he asks.

 

“Not you.”

 

“Okay. I was wondering if I could borrow some sugar?”

 

“Oh come on, Haymitch! That's the lamest excuse I've ever heard from you!” I exclaim. He sometimes comes over here to have a drink, probably after his own liquor stash is emptied. I don't mind. We talk about everything under the sun and he actually has become a pretty good friend. He listens to a lot of my worries and almost never judges. “Come in.” I open the door and let him in.

 

“I don't want people to think I'm only here for the refreshments!” he states. Like anyone on this street isn’t already aware of his love for alcohol. He walks straight to my cabinet and pours himself a drink. “Want one?” he offers.

 

“No.” I decline and take a gulp of the bottle of water I started earlier. “I'm going out later and don't want to be hammered when I leave.” Strong alcohol is not my cup of tea, so to speak.

 

“Who's the lucky guy?” he asks, gives me a smug look and pets Sanders' head.

 

“It's not a date! Why does everyone want me to meet a guy so badly?! Like I can't function on my own!” I say, my hands flying up in the air, my face reddening involuntarily. I am so frustrated with everybody thinking I _need_ a man in my life. It's not weird to be single when you have a job that takes up so much of your time! “I don't have time for romance.”

 

“Why are you being so defensive?” he challenges. “It's Friday, and you said you were going out. It's not a far-fetched assumption.”

 

I calm down a little, realizing I probably overreacted. “Fair enough. Sorry.”

 

“Katniss Everdeen apologizes!” he erupts, making a grand gesture with his hands. “Are you sure you're not hammered already?”

 

“Very funny. I just don't like when people meddle with my life.”

 

“Did you ever stop to think that some people may have your best interest at heart?” he questions.

 

“I know. It's just so hard to let people get that close. I tried it once and it didn't work,” I say, looking down at my feet.

 

“Listen, sweetheart! Just because you lost your sister doesn't mean that everyone you care about is going to leave. And, if I recall correctly, you said that _you_ were the one who broke up with that fellow. You have to allow yourself to live a little. You know, move on!” Haymitch usually calls things like he sees them and doesn't mince words. It’s a quality I generally like; I don't have time for people beating around the bush. But this time his words tick me off .

 

I raise my eyes and lock them on his. “So when was _your_ last date?” This seems to take him off guard.

 

He raises his hand with the glass and points at me. “That's not the same, and you know it.” He gulps down the rest of his drink and puts the glass on the table with a thud. “Just because you are not actively looking for a relationship doesn’t mean there is a reason to push people away.”

 

“I don't.”

 

“Maybe you do,” he says and his eyes lock on mine, his gaze unwavering.

 

He can be a little blunt sometimes, but I know his heart is in the right place. I don't want to acknowledge his statement, but I can't really deny it either. “Maybe I should have that drink after all,” I say and take another glass from the cabinet, effectively changing the subject.

 

“So if it's not a date, where are you going?” he asks and sits on the couch, leaning back.

 

“It's some sort of art show Annie's friend is hosting. Finnick couldn't go so she asked me.” I say as I pour my drink. He gives me a questioning look, knowing I usually turn down most of these types of events. “She really didn't want to go by herself, and I didn't have anything else to do,” I say and take a small sip.

 

“You mean you couldn't come up with an excuse off-the-cuff,” he concludes and it's only _partly_ true. He looks at his empty glass on the table, as if considering having another one, but apparently decides not to. “Well, I'm out of here. Gotta let you get ready for that date of yours” he teases and scratches Sanders behind his ear before he stands. I let out a small chuckle and take our glasses to the kitchen.

 

When I hear the door open I yell, “Hey, don't forget your sugar!” As if I had any.

 

“Who are you trying to fool, sweetheart? We both know you can’t find your way around a kitchen to save your life!” he calls before leaving. That’s not true. I can cook. I just don’t particularly like it.

 

That’s twice today people have insinuated, subtle or not so subtle, that I push people away. It's not like I do it on purpose! I'm not unfriendly, I just don't have time, nor the energy to be overly nice. Some people may call it rude, but that's the least of my worries. And it's not like I don't have any friends. I do. I just don’t have that many, and to be honest, that's the way I like it. I'd rather put my energy into close friends than waste it on people I don't really care for, just because social protocol dictates it. But by doing so, maybe I’m missing out.

 

Maybe I should be more open to trying new things. Or _moving on_ , as Haymitch so eloquently put it.

 

But first I have to get through tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you have any questions at all, or want to chat, I'm maxwellandlovelace on tumblr. I'd love to hear from you!


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my wonderful beta, papofglencoe! <3
> 
> And thank you everyone who left comments, kudos and all types of feedback!

My wardrobe is pretty basic. I usually don't venture that far out of my comfort zone, sticking with pants and a sweater. It’s called the  _ comfort _ zone for a reason, right? If I have a presentation or a department meeting I’ll maybe take a blouse instead, but that's it. Tonight, however, that's clearly not enough. The dress I bought with Annie is one of the few garments that’s on a hanger, and the price tag hanging from the fabric indicates that I’ve only worn it once: when I tried it out before buying it. It's black with a snug fit around the waist and a thin removable maroon belt. The sleeves are tight and end just above the elbows, and the skirt is pretty loose, allowing the fabric to flow if you have an urge to twirl.  _ Yeah, right. _ I grab a pair of scissors and cut off the price tag. I hope it still fits because I really don't have an alternative.

 

One of the few things among the knick-knacks in my jewelry box that I actually wear is a necklace. It's not something I wear everyday, but on any sort of special occasion I pull it out. I don’t have many things left of my sister, but this is one of them. Most of her other belongings were given away to charity, since my mom and I were too stricken with grief to sort through her stuff. Apparently, we both thought it was too hard to have reminders of her in the house so close to her death, so we ended up giving most of it away. But I had always admired this necklace and I saved it just in case I changed my mind. I never really thought I’d use it, but I found it about a year ago and, when I saw it, I didn't feel that pang of grief I usually did when something reminded me of her. Don't get me wrong, I miss her like hell and sometimes I want to fall to pieces just thinking about her, but not as often as before.

 

I put it on, and the yellow flower hangs just above the line of the dress.

 

I apply some light makeup, just some foundation and mascara and opt for my usual braid. Sanders has been sitting by the bathroom door the entire time, scrutinizing my every move. He probably wonders why I just spent so much time in here. I walk to him, get down to his level, and grab his head just below his ears.

 

“Will you be alright on your own while mommy goes to the art show?” I say in a silly voice that is reserved for him alone. Satan will skate to work before anyone else hears me talk like that. He leans his head toward me, and I rub him behind his ears. “Of course you will, you're such a good boy!” We walk into the kitchen, and I’m pouring him some food and water when I hear a knock on the door and glance at the clock. Almost seven. I give Sanders a pat on the head, and he follows me to the door.

 

“You look amazing!” Annie exclaims when I open.

 

“Hello to you too, and thank you. You don't look half bad yourself!” I say with a wink. She's sporting a blue dress with lots of flowers, and her light brown hair is pulled back in a bun with a few locks hanging by the sides.

 

“Thanks, are you ready to go? Hey, Sandy!” she says when she sees Sanders.

 

“Don't call him that. It's emasculating.”

 

“Oh, come on, Katniss! He doesn't care,” she argues. “Besides, I think you already did that,” she says and gives me a stern look. “And, by the way, Sandy is unisex.”

 

“Whatever you say!” I put on my shoes and give Sanders a kiss on the head.

 

“Ok, all done! Let's go.”

 

It's a fifteen-minute drive to the show, and we settle into a comfortable silence. After about ten minutes I ask, “So who is this friend of yours and why have I never heard of him?” She turns down the volume on the radio.

 

“Well, I met him about two years ago when I took this economy class, remember?” I have a vague memory of her mentioning taking a class a couple of years ago so that she could better manage her business when she started working.

 

“Yeah, it rings a bell,” I say, nodding and urging her to continue.

 

“It was pretty short and we only talked briefly. But a couple of weeks after, he contacted me after a client of his had wanted a sculpture for an art collection. So he recommended me, and by doing so he gave me  _ my  _ first client.”

 

“And now you want to repay him by going to his art show,” I conclude.

 

“Well, yeah, sort of. But also because he's really talented, and I have never been to any of his shows before. I’ve seen some of his sketches, and if his paintings are anything like them...” She stops at a red light. “Anyway, after he hooked me up with that client we kept in touch. We’re not that close, just meet for lunch or coffee once in awhile. And a couple of weeks ago he invited me and Finnick to this thing.”

 

“Yeah, I'm sure Finnick is really bummed out about missing this,” I say ironically, knowing that he doesn't have a cultural bone in his body. “He probably faked his food poisoning to get out of it.”

 

She shoots me an accusing look that could cause even the most stubborn to give in, and says, “I can guarantee you he's not faking it! Who do you think was at home when he got sick?”

 

I hold up my hands in mock surrender and raise my eyebrows, trying to get rid of the mental image she just gave me. “Okay, so he is really sick,” I relent. The light turns green and the car starts moving again.

 

“Yeah, besides. I think he really wanted to come to... you know…” she pauses. “Stake his claim,” she says almost as a whisper.

 

“Wait, what?! What do you mean 'stake his claim'?” I question with the last part in air quotes. “Did you and your friend... what's his name anyway?”

 

“Peeta.”

 

“...Peeta hook up?”

 

“No! But I mean... He  _ is _ pretty cute, and I think Finnick feels a little threatened.” This is news to me. Finnick is the male version of a bombshell. A majority of the women on this planet, and probably some of the men too, would probably sell their souls for a night with him. The worst part is, he knows it.

 

“What?  _ Finnick _ ? Insecure? Are you sure we're talking about the same guy here?”

 

“I think he is a little ashamed. This is a new feeling for him.” She's being waaay too nice to Finnick. It could be good for him that someone takes him down a couple of notches once in awhile.

 

“Well, does he have a reason to be jealous of this guy? I mean, is this Peeta interested in...?”

 

“God, no!” she interrupts. “Our relationship is strictly platonic, and that's the way we both want it.” She slows down as we approach a parking lot close to a couple of windows that reach all the way to the ground. “Okay, we're here!” she announces.

 

We park the car, and as we walk towards the entrance I notice there are a few people standing outside talking, but that's nothing compared to the large crowd inside. That place is jammed. I don't realize I’ve slowed down until Annie is a few feet in front of me, giving me a concerned look.

 

“Katniss, are you alright?”

 

“Yeah, I just didn't know there was going to be so many people here.” Ever since Prim died I have had a bit of a struggle being in large groups. Her funeral was packed, and I remember feeling smothered along with every other emotion that day. These types of gatherings remind me of those feelings.

 

“I didn't either.” She moves so she stands in front of me, deliberately blocking the entrance. She lowers her voice. “Is that a problem?” Her understanding of my apprehension is really touching.

 

I shake my head. “No. Let's get inside.” I try to swallow the lump forming in my throat, refusing to let this dread work its way inside me and root there. She grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze before we go inside.

 

The gallery is one gigantic room and is not as crammed as it first appeared from the outside, which is a relief. The walls are filled with art, mostly paintings, but a few charcoal sketches as well. In the middle there is a display, with what I assume are the best ones. Surely, one person didn't do all of this. I'm interrupted from my thoughts when a wave of whirling blond hair catches my attention.

 

“Welcome!” she says enthusiastically and smiles. “Can I take your name?”

 

“Annie Cresta-Odair.” The woman drags a pen along a piece of paper on a clipboard.

 

“Ah! There you are!” she says. “I'm assuming that this is not your husband?” She points her pen at me, then looks at Annie. Her tone is not accusatory, just to the point.

 

“No, my husband got sick so I brought a friend instead. I hope that's okay.”

 

“Not a problem! We just want to keep tabs on the guests, that’s all. What's your name?” she asks me with a smile.

 

“Katniss Everdeen.”

 

“Okay Katniss, you are also very welcome! I'm Delly and if you have any questions about anything just let me know!”

 

“Actually, is Peeta around here?” Annie asks. “We're friends of his and would like to let him know we're here.” 

 

“I see, hmm…” Delly makes a quick scan of the room. “I don't see him right now, but he’s around here somewhere.” She holds her clipboard above her eyes as if shielding them from the sun and stands on her toes even though she’s already in heels. “Ah, there he is!” she exclaims and points to a small group of people.

 

My eyes follow the direction of her finger. Four people in fancy suits are standing in a group, but my eyes instantly go to the most beautiful man I have ever seen. His ashy blond hair is styled but there’s a hint of curl at the tips. He has a muscular build and seems to be a few inches taller than me. His skin is pale with a tint of red, probably from the sun, and his strong jaw is just icing on the cake.

 

His posture is confident, and he seems comfortable being the center of attention. I suddenly understand why Finnick would feel intimidated by this man. Annie's description of him as  _ pretty cute _ is the understatement of the year - no century; he's fucking gorgeous. One of the suits says something, and he laughs and drags a hand through his hair, effectively messing it up. Oh, I want to run  _ my _ fingers through that hair!

 

“Ah, I spent so much energy trying to fix those unruly curls of his, and now he manages to mess it up in less than half an hour!” Delly sighs and breaks me from my stupor. I didn't realize I was ogling, so her interruption is probably a good thing. “He seems a little indisposed at the moment, but I'll let him know you're here,” she states without taking her eyes off him. Apparently I'm not the only one who appreciates some eye candy.

 

“Okay, we'll just take a look around then,” Annie says. We walk along the walls and admire the pictures. Below each piece there is a photograph matching the painting or sketch. Apparently, he used the photographs as inspiration and made artistic interpretations of them. I'm blown away by the details; there seems to be multiple layers of different nuances, and I can almost see every stroke of the paintbrush. The charcoal sketches are equally detailed but instead of using colors, the different shades of black and gray give them their depth. I am by no means an expert, but this, right here, is talent. If I didn't know they were painted, I could have easily mistaken them for photographs.

 

“They're amazing!” I tell Annie. She seems to be equally infatuated.

 

“I know...” she answers dreamily. “They're so real I feel like I can walk right into them.”

 

“Please don't. I don't think my insurance covers head injuries.” It’s a soft baritone voice behind us, and I feel a tingling sensation surge through me. I whip my head around, almost hitting myself with my braid. He stands only a few feet away from us, his hands behind his back and a with warm smile on his face. He's wearing light gray slacks, a button-down white shirt that seems to be made just for him, and a dark tie with thin white stripes.

 

“Peeta!” Annie shrieks and gives him a big bear hug. He returns her embrace.

 

“I'm so glad you could make it, and I'm so relieved to see a familiar face! I have been talking business and logistics all day,” he sighs in relief.

 

I don't really know what to do; I'm just standing here waiting to be introduced. Or should I introduce myself? I start fidgeting with invisible threads on my dress so I don't look like a total outcast. I probably do anyway. Fortunately, Annie comes to my rescue.

 

“Finnick got sick and couldn't make it,” she says. “This is Katniss. She's a friend of ours.” Peeta turns to me, and I can see he really fills out that shirt nicely. His eyes are a soft, yet intense, cerulean blue and seem to pierce right through me.

 

“Nice to meet you, Katniss.” The way my name rolls of his tongue sounds so right, and an electrical thrill rushes through me and settles in my lower belly. Peeta stretches his hand out to me.

 

“Likewise. You're very talented,” I say politely and grab it. I feel a blush creeping up my neck and I quickly release his hand. “These paintings are incredible!”

 

“Don't try to argue, Peeta!” Annie interjects before he has a chance to respond. “Katniss doesn't give compliments that easily.” She's right. I don't. “So just smile and say thank you!” 

 

“Alright, thank you.” He holds up his hands in surrender and smiles at me, flashing a set of perfectly straight, white teeth.  _ Oh, come on! _

 

Annie continues, looking at me. “Just like you don't give compliments easily, Peeta has a bad habit of not accepting well-earned praise.” Peeta opens his mouth to say something, but Annie continues before he gets the chance. She points a finger at him. “Don't deny it, you know I'm right,” she says with a stern voice.

 

Peeta leans closer to my ear, lowering his voice. I can feel his warm breath on my cheek, and goosebumps break out all over my body. “Does she mother you, too?” he whispers low enough for anybody passing by not to overhear but loud enough for Annie to catch it. She just rolls her eyes, and I chuckle. Wait! That wasn't a chuckle. That was a giggle! Since when do I fucking giggle?

 

His eyes flit down a little.  _ Is he looking at my boobs?  _ I don't know if I should be offended or flattered. As if he can read my mind he simply states, “I like your necklace.” No one has ever complimented it before. He probably realizes he's been caught staring and is using it as an excuse.

 

“Thank you.” I don't really want to divulge the information about where it comes from. Talking about dead family members usually puts a damper on things.

 

“It's a dandelion, right?” Peeta pulls me from my thoughts. Maybe he actually  _ was _ looking at the necklace.

 

“Yes, how did you know?” I ask. He's managed to pique my interest, and he opens his mouth to answer. But a perfectly manicured hand sneaks around his left arm and interrupts him, and Delly appears at his side.

 

“Ah, here you are!” I can't help but feel like she is intruding on our conversation. Who touches their colleague like that anyway? Or fixes their hair? Even when she's got Peeta's attention she doesn't let go of his arm.

 

“There are people admiring that sketch of the New York skyline. You should go there and talk to them.” 

 

Peeta sighs. “That's the worst part!” he complains. “Hey, I'm Peeta, I made this painting. You should give me money so you can look at it some more,” he says in a mock voice.

 

“I know,” Delly says. “But that's what pays the rent. You know you can sweet-talk your way into their fancy pants! And wallets.”  _ She still hasn't let go of his arm. _

 

“Gross, Delly!” he exclaims, but smiles at her. Then he turns to me and Annie who have just been watching their interaction. “Alright, it was lovely meeting you, ladies! Please come find me before you leave?”

 

“Sure will!” Anne simply answers. They turn, and Delly drags Peeta away towards the big display in the middle, but my eyes don't leave him. They travel from his muscular back and further down. As if this man wasn’t blessed in all possible ways already, of course he has the world’s sexiest ass! Oh fuck, I'm a goner.

 

The next half hour Annie and I walk around admiring his artwork. We manage to swipe two glasses of sparkling wine from a passing waiter, and I occasionally try to steal glances Peeta's way when Annie’s not looking. He's usually talking to someone, but a few of the times he’s standing on his own. It looks like he’s writing or scribbling something on a small piece of paper, deep in thought. I hear a low buzzing, like a phone vibrating, and Annie pulls up her cell.

 

“Oh, I've gotta take this. It's Finnick. I'll go outside.” I nod, and she turns and walks away, putting her phone by her ear. “Hey, how are you doing?” Her voice is fading as she walks away.

 

I discover a corner of the room that I didn't see before. It's kind of secluded, and I don't mind finding a spot without a lot of people. When I turn the corner I see one single painting. Without realizing it, my hand covers my mouth and a wave of emotion hits me like a ton of bricks. I feel like I might lose my foothold, my hands start to sweat, and I almost drop the glass. The picture is simple; a pair of blue eyes, but they are exactly like Prim's. It's not possible! How could anyone catch the innocence in her eyes like that, without having met her? I feel a lump form in my throat, a tightening in my chest, and my eyes start to prickle. I have to get out of here.

 

I turn to find the closest door so I can leave. But I freeze when I turn around and find another pair of blue eyes looking back at me.

 

“Oh, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to startle you,” he says in a calm voice, and I try to regain my composure.

 

“You didn't.”

 

“Is everything okay?” His voice is soft, with a hint of concern.

 

“Yes.” I pause for a moment. “Actually no. Did you make this?” I ask while pointing at the painting with my thumb above my shoulder, not breaking eye contact. I'm not ready to see it again. His smile is gentle, but his eyes have turned a darker shade of blue. He seems a little bothered.

 

“Sure did,” he simply states and lets his eyes drift toward the painting. I brace myself and look at it too. That's when I notice that this one isn't like the others.

 

“There is no photograph.” I murmur.

 

“Well, this one is little different. It's just something I conjured up in my mind.” His shoulders are slumped and his hands are in his pockets. He doesn't have that self confident vibe anymore. He seems... vulnerable. And broken. Like me.

 

“Why isn't it displayed at the center? It's the best one I've seen tonight.” It's true. Even if I hadn't made the connection to Prim, it's still extraordinary.

 

“Thank you.” He pauses. “But it's not for sale.” His voice is neutral, and he rolls up the arms of his shirt, as if not knowing what to do with his hands. That seems a little weird. Isn't that the whole point of this thing? Why would he bring it here if he wasn't selling it? And why hide it? Like he has a way of intercepting my thoughts, he answers before I get a chance to ask.

 

“It was Delly's idea. She saw me working on it and got really excited, but was really disappointed when I told her I didn't want to sell or showcase it.” I wonder why. “After a long discussion back and forth she suggested that I should at least bring it, if nothing else than to 'show my talent'.” His voice is low, almost like murmur and his eyes are locked to the floor. It seems like he really doesn't want to talk about it. I know how that feels. So I try to give him an out.

 

“Well, she's right about one thing.” His eyes flutter up to mine. “You sure do have lot of talent,” I say sheepishly.

 

“You know what? I think Annie was lying. That's the second compliment you've given me tonight.” He seems a little relieved at the change of subject.

 

“Well, she was right about you. You didn't accept it; you just subtly changed the topic,” I say, and I can't keep the smile off my face. He holds up his hands.

 

“Apparently not subtle enough.” He’s smiling now. The worry that plagued his features before is gone, and I realize that my own misery is forgotten, too. Usually when this happens, it takes a night at home, cuddling with Sanders and several nightmares before I start to feel somewhat normal again. But now, after spending just a couple of minutes alone with this man, his presence alone has made it all better. My eyes drop to his mouth. His lips look so damn kissable, and without realizing it I take a step towards him.

 

“Peeta!” Both our heads snap in the the direction of the high-pitched voice. ”You know, if you want people to actually buy your paintings, you have to show your face and use that silver tongue of yours!” Delly says accusingly as she swirls around the corner, completely unaware of her intrusion.  _ Cockblocker! _

 

“I know,” he sounds guilty. “I'm sorry, Dell. I know busted your ass off, organizing this thing. I'm all yours for the rest of the evening.” She seems satisfied with his answer and gives him a smile. Then another whirlwind comes around the corner.

 

“Katniss! I'm sorry. I just talked to Finnick and it seems like he just can't manage without me.” Annie turns and look to Peeta.

 

“I'm sorry we'll have to cut this short, Peeta,” she says apologetically.

 

“No problem. It seems like I just committed myself to talk to strangers for the rest of the evening anyway. Don't worry about it.” He gives her a hug. “I really appreciate you coming.” Then he turns to me. “It was great talking to you, Katniss.” he says and offers me a business card.  _ That's it? _ I thought we shared something here, but apparently it wasn’t as groundbreaking for him as it was for me. I accept the card and put it in one of the small pockets on the sides of the dress.

 

“You too,” I answer curtly. 

 

“Thanks again for coming.” He looks us both in the eyes and then slings his arm around Delly's shoulders, and I watch them walk towards a small crowd. I can't help thinking about what it would be to have those strong arms around me, and I feel a sting of jealousy. Delly raises her hand to his head, probably to fix a stray lock of his hair, but he swats it away.

 

“Katniss?” I don't realize I'm gawking until Annie's voice breaks me from my thoughts. My eyes flicker to her, and I probably look a little surprised. “Are you alright?” she asks for the second time tonight. She is obviously concerned.

 

“Um... Yeah, I just... Never mind!” I don't want to tell her I was staring. “Let's go.”

 

The car ride back is pretty quiet, and it seems like Annie wants to say something but doesn't. After a while, she finally gives in and breaks the silence.

 

“Did something happen while I was on the phone?” she asks carefully.

 

My response is almost immediate. “No! Why would you ask?”

 

“You just looked a little flustered when I got back, that's all. And you've been really quiet since then.” I don't know by 'you' she means just me, or me and Peeta, but I don't press the issue.

 

“We just discussed one of his paintings a little.” I don't mention that he alone managed to pull me up from that inescapable black hole of guilt and misery I usually fall in when I'm left alone for too long with thoughts of my little sister. I certainly don't reveal that I was so mesmerized by him that I almost leaned in and kissed him without thinking about the consequences. In hindsight, I guess Delly's interruption was a blessing in disguise. I almost made a fool out of myself.

 

“Okay, just checking.”

 

Another awkward silence. Finally, I can’t keep quiet anymore. I have to know.

 

“I thought you said he was single.” I sound more accusing than I had intended. “I mean, he and Delly seemed pretty cozy.”

 

“I know. But I think they’re just really close friends,” she says without taking her eyes off the road. After few seconds she turns her head slowly with a subtle smirk. “I thought  _ you  _ didn't care?”

 

“I don't... I just like to have all the facts.” That's all the information she manages to pull from me.

 

The rest of the ride goes smoothly, and when I open my front door Sanders is sitting there waiting. A smile creeps onto my face. This dog always make me smile.

 

“Aw, did you miss me?” I put my hands on either side of his head and scratch him. “Of course you did. Let me just change out of these clothes and we can go for a walk and you can do your business.” I know he probably doesn't understand a word of what I'm saying, but I don't care.

 

I walk past him and into my bedroom. As I pull the dress over my head a piece of paper lands on the floor. It's the business card Peeta gave me. It's simplistic; white, with his name in silver capital letters: PEETA MELLARK. When I flip it over my eyes probably grow as wide as saucers. There is handwritten phone number, but that's not the only thing that catches my attention. Next to it, is small drawing of a dandelion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please let me know what you think.
> 
> I'm maxwellandlovelace on tumblr.


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who left comments and kudos! You have no idea how much it means to me! A special thanks to papofglencoe for betaing this!

It's freezing. My skin starts to pebble, and it travels all the way up my arms, past my shoulders and down my back, and down to my legs and feet. I pull the covers up to my chin and turn around to lie in the fetal position. That's better. No, it's too warm, so I flip the pillow to the cooler side. Perfect! No, it's still too warm, so I throw off the covers again. This cycle repeats itself over and over. Maybe I should just give up. Sanders already did and left the room a while ago. Probably to to sleep somewhere without me constantly turning around.

 

The sheets are wrinkled after I have been tossing and turning for what feels like hours, and I reach for my phone to check the time. I have to squint my eyes because of the bright screen, but manage to make out the numbers: 03.17. If I fall asleep now and get up at 9, I can get almost six hours of sleep, I try to bargain with myself. I can live with that. Assuming I fall asleep right now.

 

But the only thing I see when I close my eyes are his blue ones. The way they looked at me, and how he saved me from that bottomless pit of grief and despair I almost fell into. Why did he leave his number? Is it even  _ his _ ? Does he write it down on all his cards? And a small drawing like that, he can probably make with his eyes closed. It doesn't mean anything.

 

So why can't I just stop thinking about him?

 

I turn on the bedside lamp and pull out his card from the drawer. It's an almost exact copy of Prim's necklace, and it’s nothing short of a wonder how he managed to capture it that flawlessly with just one glance. I know it’s his job, but still. I swipe my thumb across his name.  _ Peeta Mellark _ . It's quite unique.

 

Instead of pointlessly trying to fall asleep, I pull out my laptop and type his name in the search field. Why didn't I think of this before? The result is a handful of search hits. He has a Facebook account, but it doesn't seem very active, and I can't find any relationship status anywhere. Oh fuck, I've turned into one of those. I'm stalking information on Facebook about a guy I met once. This is a first for me.

 

But I’m intrigued and continue to scroll down the list. There's a website with the same address as the one on the card. There are mostly pictures of his art and some contact information, but the number doesn't match the one he gave me. It's pretty reasonable; why would he put his personal number on his professional website?

 

Instead, I scan the other sites and find a picture of him and Delly. He is wearing a navy blue shirt that hugs him in all the right places, and his arm is slung around her shoulders. They both smile, and his blue gaze is piercing through the camera lens. I’m thankful I’m in bed because that look would cause my knees to buckle. Delly leans into him, and she looks proud with a big smile on her lips. The picture seems to be taken at another art exhibition and the caption reads  _ Peeta Mellark and assistant Delly Cartwright _ . So she's his assistant, that's it. But their relationship seems to be more than just professional.

 

I try a different approach and type the phone number in the search field. There it is. His name is at the top of the list, so I guess it's his real number, at least. But this doesn't help me at all. Do I call him? Do I text him? I close the laptop and lean back on my pillow. I have to get some sleep.

 

* * *

 

There is something wet moving on my face. It’s stroking my cheek and travels across my nose and up my forehead. Then it’s poking me. I open my eyes and am met with Sanders' brown ones.

 

“That's gross, Sanders! I’ve seen where that mouth has been.” He cocks his head as if he's thinking:  _ So?  _ “Alright, I'm up. What time is it?” I ask, as if expecting an answer from him. I grab my phone and press the home button: 8.11 am. I guess that will have to do.

 

But when I stand up I feel a painful burn in my legs. Oh, that's right. I usually don't run, and yesterday I didn't stretch. I guess I'm paying the price now and half-limp to the kitchen. I turn on the kettle and boil some water to make instant coffee. After my “breakfast” I take Sanders out. We pass by Haymitch's house, and I glance toward his windows, but there are usually no signs of life before noon.

 

We walk slowly around the neighborhood because of the soreness in my legs, but Sanders is by my feet at all times. I'm really glad I took the time to raise him properly when he was a puppy, and now I'm reaping the benefits. My thoughts automatically go to last night. I've had some time to process it, but I'm still at a crossroads. On one hand, I definitely want to see Peeta again, but on the other, doesn't it seem desperate to call the day after you met someone for the first time? But he  _ did _ give me his number.

 

When we get back to the house I do the only thing I can think of. I call Gale. We were inseparable and best friends as kids. We don't talk every day, but I know I can always count on him, and he always has my back. He answers after a couple of signals.

 

“Hey, Catnip!” I've had that nickname since we met. He misheard my name, and after that, it kind of stuck. I guess it could be worse, but it still doesn't mean I like it. But it’s useless trying to get rid of it, so I let it slide.

 

“Hey.” I don’t really know how to put it so I just cut to the chase. “I want to get your advice on something.”

 

“Really?” He sounds unconvinced, which is kind of expected since I rarely ask for help. I always try to solve my problems on my own, before pestering someone else about it.

 

“Yes. And please hear me out before you chime in,” I tell him.

 

“Alright.”

 

“So, I met a guy.” I can hear him take breath, wanting to chip in. “You promised you would hear me out,” I add before he has the chance. I take his silence as a cue to continue and give him a brief account of the events last night, but I leave out the part of me swooning like teenager.

 

“So what kind of advice are you looking for?” he asks when I'm done.

 

“Isn't it obvious?” I question. “Do I call him or not? Doesn't that seem a little desperate? I’m not one of those girls who drops everything just because an attractive guy gives them a little bit of attention.”

 

“So you think he’s attractive, huh,” he asks, but it’s more of a statement. Peeta is more than just attractive; he’s sexier than I thought was possible, and I’m feeling a heat across my face just thinking about him.

 

“Well, he’s not sore on the eyes.”

 

“Well, there’s no harm in calling him right? Go on  _ one _ date, and if it doesn’t work out, you can put it to rest. And you’ve got a meal out of it, so it’s a win-win.” He continues. “And besides, he's the one who reached out to you. Believe me, you don't draw a girl a flower if you’re not interested. And if he managed to help you through that episode you almost had, he's probably a decent guy,” he concludes.

 

“You're making a disturbing amount of sense,” I say reluctantly.

 

“I know,” he says, and I can practically see the shit-eating grin he must have on his face. He lucked out and met the love of his life a couple of years ago; he’s been married to Madge for three years, and they have two kids. “Look, what do you have to lose?”

 

“You mean, besides my self-respect?” What if I have misinterpreted the whole situation and Peeta doesn’t want to see me at all. “Maybe I should just let it be. I mean, he  _ could _ be one of those guys who gives out their number to anything with more than one X chromosome.”

 

“Then find out,” Gale says. “Listen, I don’t think there’s any rulebook on how to do this. Give him a call, see what happens.” Maybe he’s right.

 

“We’ll see. Thanks.” I hang up the phone and slouch down on the couch. I start flipping between the channels on TV, but I’m not really looking. My mind keeps flashing back to last night and my eyes soon settle on my phone on the coffee table. I  _ could _ give him a call. But I hate calling people I’m not familiar with. It always ends with an awkward silence where nobody knows what to say.

 

After a while I give in and grab the phone from where it rests and open it. I’m  _ not _ gonna call him; I’ll send him a text. But I keep staring at that blinking blue bar, like it’s challenging me to start typing. I don’t even know if I should start with  _ Hi _ or  _ Hey _ . Why is this so difficult? I’m Katniss Everdeen. I’m twenty-six years old. I’m a biology Ph.D. student. I should be able to write a simple text. Write the fucking text.

 

_ So do you draw flowers on all of your business cards? _

 

That doesn’t sound rude, right? Maybe I should add a smiley, just to avoid confusion. No, I don’t do smileys. If he can’t handle a simple question, it will never work anyway. He can answer if he wants; the ball is in his court now. I decide I’m not gonna spend more time on this, so I just hit the send button and quickly put it back on the table.

 

My laptop is still in my bedroom from this night’s googling adventure, so I get under the covers and grab it from the nightstand. I have to catch up on some new articles that were published last week that I didn’t have time to read, since I was preparing for the conference  _ and _ finishing up my own article.

 

When I hear the familiar buzz of a vibrating phone on a hard surface, I instinctively slam the computer shut and throw off the covers. I half-run to the living room (why did I leave it there, anyway?) to see who it is. The disappointment that hits me when I realize it’s just some commercial text is embarrassing, and I’m relieved no one saw my foolish scramble across the room. Well, except Sanders, but he won’t tell. Why do I care so much if Peeta answers or not?

 

I retreat back to my bed and put the phone on the pillow next to me. I don’t care if he gets back to me or not, but if he does, I wanna see it. I open up my laptop and continue reading the article I started before. But the screen is too bright, and I have to squint my eyes. After being a student for as many years as I have, you start to recognize the signs when your brain is sleep-deprived. And at that time it’s better to just give in. It’s no use trying to read or learn anything because your brain will just blatantly ignore it.

 

I forgot I left my phone next to me, so when I wake from the buzzing sound, it startles me. There is no name on the display, but I recognize the number. I swipe my thumb across the screen to read his message.

 

_ No. Just yours. _

 

I don’t know if I was expecting some sort of grand explanation. Maybe there’s some underlying meaning to the drawing I’m not getting. Well, there’s a meaning to me, but there’s no way he could have known that. So I just send him another question.

 

_ Katniss: Why? _

 

I only have to wait a couple of minutes for his reply.

 

_ Peeta: Oh, man! I have to work on my flirting skills. I thought it was obvious. That necklace seemed special to you. _

 

_ Katniss: It is. Maybe I can tell you sometime. _

 

I don’t know why I wrote that, because I usually don’t want to talk about it. But since Peeta somehow managed to make me feel so much better yesterday, I kind of feel like I owe him. And I hate owing people. Another buzz.

 

_ Peeta: If you want to. But you can tell me other stuff too. _

 

_ Katniss: Like what? _

 

_ Peeta: Like… What’s your favorite color?  _

 

I chuckle to myself. What kind of third-grade-question is that? But I decide to humor him.

 

_ Katniss: Green. What’s yours? _

 

_ Peeta: The soft blend of red and yellow of the sky right before the sun disappears below the horizon.  _ Oh, that’s right. He’s an artist.

 

_ Katniss: You know, you could easily just have said orange. _

 

_ Peeta: I could. But then you would have thought of a carrot;) _

 

_ Katniss: That’s true! _

 

He doesn’t reply after that. Did I offend him or something? I’m arguing with myself about what I should do, but he beats me to it.

 

_ Peeta: Do you want to continue this conversation tomorrow? I know a place that has the best brunches.  _ I have never understood the fascination with brunches. Why in the world would you want to merge breakfast and lunch together when you can spread them out? But I definitely won’t turn down a meal with Peeta.

 

_ Katniss: Okay. Where do you want to meet? _

 

_ Peeta: There is a place on Victor’s Lane called Sae’s. _

 

_ Katniss: Yeah, I know where it is. What time? _

 

_ Peeta: 11? _

 

_ Katniss: Sounds good. See you there. _

 

Okay, that’s settled. I’m well-rested after my power nap and decide to give that article a second chance. It goes a lot smoother, and I finish it all in one reading. Normally, I have to take breaks to let the new information sink in, but this time the process is not as exhausting as usual.

 

* * *

 

I’m half an hour early. It usually takes about fifteen minutes to drive into town, but I wanted to give myself some extra time in case I didn’t find a place to park my car. It must have slipped the urban planners’ minds that not everyone in Panem live  _ inside _ the city limits and have to rely on a car to get into town. Fortunately, I managed to find a space pretty quickly, hence my earliness.

 

I find a booth that’s kind of secluded but allows a good view of the entrance. Since I didn’t eat anything before I left, I can feel my stomach start to growl in protest, but I just order a coffee while I wait. I pull up my phone and open Candy Crush to pass the time. But it’s impossible; not because the level is particularly difficult, but because every time the door opens my head snaps up.

 

I’m so irritated with myself, for letting my world revolve around a man I’ve met once, that I almost miss it when he enters. His clothing is a lot more casual today, as expected. He’s wearing a short-sleeved dark green shirt, and I wonder if there is any color he can’t pull off.

 

He greets the waiter and starts scanning the room. His gaze is intense, but when his eyes meet mine his face lights up, and I feel a flutter in my stomach. Shit, what do I do? Do take his hand or just say hi? I get up and hope this doesn’t turn into one of those awkward situations where one of us goes for a handshake and the other doesn’t.

 

“You found it!” he exclaims and gives me a quick hug. His warm arms envelop me, and it feels like such a luxury. When he releases me, he gives me a sheepish smile, and his cheeks are a little flushed. Someone must have been spending some time in the sun. “Sorry, that wasn’t too forward of me, I hope.”

 

We settle down across from one another. “No, you’re in the clear,” I reassure him.

 

“Good. Wouldn’t want to get off on the wrong foot. Have you had time to look at the menu?” he asks, shooting a look at my almost-empty coffee cup.

 

“Yes, but I was hoping to get your recommendation.”

 

“Well, it’s the only place around here that has anything that could pass for bread, but their waffles are stellar.”

 

“I could go for waffles.” I don’t just say it to be polite. It sounds really good, especially since I’ve just had coffee today.

 

“Excellent choice!” he beams. In no time at all, a waiter swings by our table, a girl that looks to be in her late teens. She drags a hand through her long hair and then puts it on her hip.

 

“Hey, Peeta! Good to see you.” She gives me a quick glance, but her eyes instantly go back to Peeta. “The usual?”

 

“Yes, two of those actually.” She scribbles something on her notebook, and we both order coffee. She comes back a minute later with our drinks. As soon as she leaves, Peeta’s face turns serious, and he looks me straight in the eyes. His eyes have turned a shade darker, and the intensity of his gaze puts me a little at unease.

 

“You know I’ve gotta ask, right?” His voice is not the same cheerful one he had just a minute ago when he was talking about waffles. Oh, no. He’s gonna ask about the necklace, and then I have to tell him about Prim. That’s not really first-date-material.

 

“What?” I try to sound indifferent, but I’m sure my voice is trembling.

 

“What do you do for a living?” he asks casually. The breath I release is probably a little too loud to pass for a normal exhale, but I try to laugh it off. “What?” he questions. “Did you think I was gonna ask for your deepest, darkest secret?”

 

“Maybe,” I say and try to hide my smirk behind the coffee cup. If he sees, he doesn’t show it.

 

“Well, I already lured your favorite color out of you, so I would say I’m halfway there,” he says with a wink.

 

“Then I guess I might as well let you have this one, too. I’m a Ph.D. student in biology at Panem U.”

 

“Really?” People usually find this boring, but his enthusiasm seems genuine. “Then you must be incredibly smart. What field?”

 

“Macroevolution.”

 

“I don’t even know what that means. What’s it like?”

 

“It’s not that complex. It’s just a string of moments where you fear people finally figured out you really have no idea what you’re doing.”

 

“I highly doubt that, but I wouldn’t know.” Just then, our food arrives. He leans back when the waiter puts the plates on the table, and I spare a glance at the waffles.

 

“What is that?” I blurt the words out, and they sound more accusatory than I had intended. But these are no ordinary waffles.

 

“It’s raspberry jam and whipped cream,” he says like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. Granted, I don’t eat waffles often, but when I do I drench them in maple syrup. “You should give it a try.”

 

“I will. I just didn’t expect this.” I take a bite, and the mixture of the sweet jam, fluffy cream and crispy waffle explodes and mix in my mouth. It’s delicious. “Wow, I think my mouth just had an orgasm!” The words are out before I can stop them, and my hand flies up to cover my mouth. Like that’s going to help. Peeta simply looks amused.

 

“Then you’re in luck. I know a few more things that will leave you… more than satisfied,” he teases. Instead of embarrassing me even further, I feel myself getting wet from his implication, even if he’s talking about food. Right?

 

“Well, I guess sometimes the stars align.”

 

Peeta chuckles and look down on his plate. He has a look on his face like he wants to say something but is biting his tongue.

 

“What?” I ask and raise my eyebrows, urging him to explain.

 

“People use that expression when something rare happens, or when they get lucky,” he muses and leans back.

 

“Yeah, so?” I ask, sounding a lot less interested than I was aiming for.

 

“Well, many stars aligning  _ is _ rare, but I wouldn't count myself lucky if that happened.”

 

“How come?”

 

“The gravitational forces of many stars on a straight line could disrupt the balance, and we  _ could _ get thrown out of the solar system,” he deadpans.

 

“Oh!” I’m surprised not only that he knows that, but when he pointed it out, I thought I could see a spark in his eyes. “How do you know?”

 

“I, ah, took a couple of physics classes in college. And I have always liked astronomy.” He leans forward and puts his arm on the table. ”Have you seen those pictures of galaxies and supernovae? That’s art.”

 

The rest of the conversation goes pretty smoothly. There are no awkward silences, and Peeta always has something to say. He’s talkative but also attentive and a very good listener. I tell him about Sanders and show him his picture on my phone. I learn that he lives in an apartment not far from here and that he’s twenty-seven and has two older brothers, Rye and Aaron, who are only one and three years older than he is. When he talks about them, his voice rises, and it’s obvious that they’re very close. The same goes for his father.

 

“Yeah, I don’t know how my life would be without my dad.” His voice is lower but still full of love. I get a tad jealous of how close he seems to be to his family. Not that I begrudge him that, I just wish could have the same with mine. The one that’s left anyway. It only took a year between my father’s and Prim’s deaths, and after that, my relationship with my mother deteriorated.

 

Then I notice his eyes on me, like he’s expecting me to say anything. Oh shit, I didn’t realize I zoned out.

 

“Sorry, what?”

 

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?” he asks, and I freeze. This kind of question is hit-or-miss. Apparently, today it’s a miss. I just stare down at my half-eaten waffle, and suddenly I’m repulsed by it. I have to say something; I can’t just leave him hanging. But no words come out. I can hear the sound of my own heartbeat, but it’s not the usual dunking; it’s like waves crashing twice a second. The room around us slowly starts to spin and everything turns a dark shade of grey. Except for Peeta. He is the only light in here. His warm hand encircles mine, and I manage to fix my eyes on him, like he’s anchoring me to the present. And I slowly return to some semblance of normality.

 

“Are you okay?” He’s obviously worried, but I can’t talk about Prim right now. I just can’t.

 

“Yeah. I mean no, I don’t have any siblings.” It’s not a complete lie, but it’s not the whole truth either. He seems satisfied with my answer and lets go of my hand, but I instinctively grab his again, not ready to lose this closeness. His eyes shoot up to mine expectantly, as if waiting for a an explanation, but I don’t give him one; I would probably choke on my words. He doesn’t push it, but he doesn’t let go of my hand either. I wonder if he feels it too.

 

We continue a pretty casual conversation with our hands intertwined. It probably looks weird, and it’s a bit tricky eating with just one hand, but I don’t care. When we’re finished Peeta foots the bill. Normally, I would have argued, but I don’t want to make a fuss.

 

“Did you drive here?” he asks.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Then let me walk you back to your car,” he offers.

 

“Okay.” When we leave the diner, he puts his hand on the small of my back, and it feels surprisingly reassuring. We walk incredibly slow back to my car, like he doesn’t want our little walk to end. And frankly, neither do I.

 

“Your tires look worn. You should change those,” he informs me when we get to my car. He’s stalling.

 

“Um yeah, I guess I should.”

 

“I had a really great time today, Katniss.” His voice is sensual, and the way he says my name is so sexy it makes me want to drag him into an alley and have my way with him.

 

“Me too,” is all I can muster.

 

“So, do you want to...” I don’t know what he was going to ask, but I can’t help myself. I cut him off, and my lips are on his before he can finish his sentence. I rest my hands on his steady chest, and his travel up to my shoulders, holding me in a firm grip. His lips are as soft and warm as I had imagined, and at this proximity I notice his scent. He smells like… home. The kiss is pretty chaste, and it’s over way too soon. He leans his forehead against mine.

 

“I’m sorry. I don’t know...” This time, it’s Peeta who cuts  _ me _ off.

 

“Don’t be. Can I...” He clears his throat. “Can I see you again?” Like there would be any hesitation after what just transpired between us. But I appreciate that he doesn’t take it for granted.

 

“Yeah.” He lets out a breath and traces his fingers down my arm to my hands. He gives them a squeeze before letting go, and I instantly miss his touch. “I’ll call you.”

 

“Oh no!” he feigns distress. “You know that’s code for ‘I will  _ not _ call you’, right?” It could have become extremely awkward after that kiss, but I’m amazed by how he’s turned this into a comfortable conversation. 

 

I pull out my keys and get into the car. I look up to him from where he’s partially leaning on the door. “Okay, I’ll text you. Better?” I can’t stop the stupid smile that’s creeping onto my face.

 

“Hey, I’ll take what I can get. Drive safely.”

 

“Okay.” Before I close the door I add with a smirk, “I’ll call you.”

  
And I know I will.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment and let me know what you think! I'm maxwellandlovelace an tumblr if you want to chat.


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who left reviews and comments for this story. I'm blown away by the response!
> 
> And papofglencoe, thank you for betaing and for supporting me and this story!

It’s sooner than I think. I’m still sitting in my small Ford in the driveway, even though I had the entire drive home to sort through what happened today. I went on a date with Peeta, I almost had a meltdown, I lied to him, and then I kissed him. Interesting first date. I could almost laugh about it, if it weren’t for the lying part. Maybe it wasn’t a flat-out lie, but that’s just semantics. I _should_ have told him about why I was acting so strange. But he was so gracious about it and didn’t push that I took the easy way out and just kept my mouth shut. Guilt is a feeling I’m used to; I’ve been feeling it for seven years now. I have accepted that it will probably never go away. But the remorse I’m feeling right now is something I can actually do something about.

 

I find his number quickly and press the call button.

 

He answers almost immediately. “Hello?”

 

“I’m sorry,” I blurt out. Might as well get to the point.

 

“What do you mean?” He’s confused, which is reasonable. “I told you that you have nothing to be sor...”

 

“I lied.” There. I’ve said it. I’m met with silence. Like he’s processing what I told him.

 

“About what?” He doesn’t sound angry, only curious.

 

Here goes nothing. “I _do_ have a sister. I mean, at least I _did_. But she died a long time ago, and I still have a hard time talking about it and...”

 

I take breath, but before I can continue Peeta speaks. “Katniss, listen. You don’t have to tell me about that. I could see that your weren’t comfortable talking about it today, and you have no obligation whatsoever to explain yourself to me now. If you _want_ to tell me, I’ll listen, but there’s no pressure,” he says sincerely.

 

There are so many people that have told me that I should talk about it, sometimes almost to the point of forcing me. Like they are entitled to know. Then I find myself awake all night in an attempt to fend off nightmares. And here is a guy I’ve met twice, showing me more compassion than I’ve seen in a long time.

 

“Thank you,” I say in an exhale.

 

“You don’t have to thank me. I like you, Katniss, but we’ve just met. Don’t think you have to account for your whole life story on the first date.” He pauses and then adds in a brighter tone, “That’s what the second date is for.”

 

He’s unbelievable. I think that’s three times in a couple of days that he has turned my mood around completely.

 

“So you’re assuming there will be a second date? That’s very presumptuous of you,” I say, hoping my attempt at a playful tone comes across.

 

“I do,” he muses.

 

“Really? So what will be happening on this second date?” I challenge.

 

“Hmm, let’s see.” He pauses, as if he’s really thinking about it. “You’re going to come over to my apartment for dinner Friday night.”

 

“And what kind of dinner will that be? Take-out?”

 

“Oh, you don’t give me enough credit! Obviously I’ll cook.” It seems like he really put some thought into this.

 

“Sounds tempting.” And it really does. A night at his place, without the distraction of a bunch of people surrounding us like we would have had if we had gone to a restaurant.

 

“So you’ll allow it?” As confident as he usually is, I can’t help but think I hear a hint of insecurity in his question.

 

“Yes, I’ll allow it,” I say and try to sound as convincing as possible for him.

 

“Great! And Katniss?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I know what it’s like to have a part of your life that you don’t feel comfortable talking about,” he murmurs, like he’s afraid someone might hear it. “So I know where you’re coming from.”

 

“You do?” I wonder if we’ve had similar experiences or if he’s talking about something completely different. Either way, I doubt he would tell me if it wasn’t something important.

 

“Yeah. I…” He hesitates. “Never mind.” His dejected tone is the same as when he was talking about his painting at the art show, and apparently, this is a sensitive subject for him. I’m curious as to what he’s referring to, but decide to give him the same courtesy he showed to me and not pry into his past.

 

Instead of elaborating he promises to text me his address, and we decide to keep in touch throughout the week.

 

* * *

 

It’s Thursday afternoon, and my desk is buried in lab reports from undergrad students. As a part of my work, I’m expected to spend about one-fifth of my time teaching. That usually means working as a lab assistant, which, in turn, means I’m also assigned the task of correcting the following reports. I’m about to slam my head against the desk in frustration, but my phone rings before I get the chance. During the week, Peeta and I have texted or called each other every day, talking about everything and nothing. When I see it’s him, I immediately answer.

 

“Hey, you.”

 

“Hey. Are you busy?”

 

“No, not really.” I always find excuses to put off correcting lab reports. Mostly because it’s the most boring part of this job, but also because it’s unfulfilling and thankless work. “I’m just reading reports from a lab a couple of weeks ago.”

 

“How’s it going?”

 

“Honestly? It’s crap. I don’t know how these people managed to graduate high school. The grammar is awful, and when it’s correct, it’s usually because they’ve taken it verbatim from something else.” I take a breath and continue my rant. “I mean, if you’re gonna copy, don’t take it from the textbook. At least _try_ to hide it.”

 

“So let me get this straight. You’re complaining about plagiarizing students _not_ being creative?”

 

He has a point. “I know, I just...” I lean against the back of the chair and pinch the bridge of my nose with my thumb and index finger. “It would at least give me a challenge,” I sigh.

 

He chuckles. “Yeah, that’s true.”

 

“So, what are you up to?”

 

“Nothing in particular. Delly and I just finished the paperwork from this Sunday.” _Delly._ I have no reason to dislike her; she seems genuinely nice, but I’m kind of put off by her constantly being around Peeta.

 

“Ah, okay.” I don’t want to know more about Delly, so I change the subject. “So what time do you want to meet tomorrow?”

 

“Hmm, seven? Does that work for you?” _Does that work for me?_ I’ve deliberately not scheduled anything else tomorrow to keep the entire day open. But I’m not gonna tell him that.

 

“Yeah, that works.”

 

“Great, see you then.”

 

“See you tomorrow.”

 

That was a short call. Our conversations earlier this week have been longer than that, and he has never called during the day, either. Perhaps he thought he was disturbing me, and that’s the reason he kept it short. But he didn’t seem to have a clear purpose with his call. Maybe I’m reading too much into this, and I don’t have time to start analyzing our entire exchange, because I’m startled by someone clearing their throat at the door. I didn’t realize until now that I’d forgotten to close it. I snap my head in the direction of the sound and am met by Finnick’s amused stare. _Shit, how much did he hear?_

 

“Who are you seeing tomorrow?” he asks, sporting a smirk. I don’t think he even tries to hide it.

 

“No one in particular.” I pretend to shrug off his question, but Finnick is persistent.

 

“Then who were you talking to?”

 

I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of an answer. Because if I tell him that it’s a date, he _will_ tease me. Mercilessly. Instead, I just ignore his question and try to change the topic.

 

“So how’s your stomach?”

 

“Oh, I’m never having shrimp again, that’s for sure.” Apparently, the food poisoning didn’t last long but was pretty intense. Let’s say I didn’t envy Annie her weekend.

 

“Understandable. Annie deserves a fucking medal for putting up with you.”

 

“Believe me, I’ve already given her a _fucking_ medal, if you catch my drift,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows. Like he didn’t just spell it out. And I’m ashamed that I actually envy him for _having_ a sex life. The only action going on in my bed for several months has been nightmares.

 

“Woah woah, I don’t need to know that!” I raise my hands like I’m trying to shield myself from that information.

 

“Hey, you asked,” he tries to defend himself.

 

“No, I didn’t.” He leaves the doorframe to come into the room and sits on whatever small space he can find on my desk that isn’t covered in papers or books. “But I guess you didn’t come here to tell me about your sex endeavours.”

 

He chuckles. “No, but if you want to know, I’m an open book.”

 

“I don’t.”

 

“Just thought I’d let you know that there’s a conference in D.C. in… like two months. It’s Wednesday through Friday, and it seems to be within your research field. I can send you the link if you want,” he offers.

 

Finnick is working as a postdoc in the same department, but his field is marine biology, so he probably won’t be joining me. Since we work within different areas, our paths rarely cross, so it’s always nice when he stops by my office. He was a lab assistant in one of the courses I took as an undergrad student. Then he was a teaching assistant in an advanced class with fewer students, and, when I started as a Ph.D. student, he was a familiar face. Over the years our student-teacher relationship has evolved into friendship.

 

“Yeah, that sounds great. I’ll look it up and have a talk with my supervisor.”

 

Then I’m left alone again with the hideous lab reports.

 

* * *

 

_I can’t believe this is happening. I shake her as hard as I can in an attempt to wake her up. The force I’m using is probably more than what’s appropriate, but I don’t care. She has to wake up. On the floor there’s a half-empty liquor bottle (where did that come from?) and open orange bottles with hardly any pills left._

 

 _“Come on, Prim! Please wake up!” I cry out, unable to stop sobbing. I quickly wipe the tears from my face and try to focus on her. In the middle of violently shaking her, she suddenly opens her eyes and looks at me. Relief washes over me, and I’m so grateful she’s awake that it takes me a while to realize that she’s not_ looking _at me. She’s glaring. Her gaze is locked on me, and her eyes are ice cold. Like she’s angry. No. Furious._

 

_“Prim, what’s wrong?” I ask, and I wonder if she’s really in the clear. She doesn’t say anything, just keeps her eyes boring into me. When she gets up from the bed, I instinctively stumble backward. Her stare is so intense, and I can’t put words to this feeling I have in the pit of my stomach. Fear? No, I’m not afraid of my sister. I love her. But right now she’s freaking me out. Shouldn’t the paramedics be here by now?_

 

_“This is your fault.” I recognize the voice but can’t figure it out who it belongs to. But I know it’s not Prim’s._

 

_“What do you mean? What is my fault?” I whimper._

 

_“You did this.”_

 

_I continue to back away from her, but she gets closer by the second. Then I hit the wall behind me. No, that’s not a wall. It’s softer. I whip my head around and am met with another pair of cold blue eyes. My mother. She’s giving me the same glare as Prim and says the same thing._

 

_“This is your fault. You did this.” I still don’t recognize the voice._

 

_“I did what? Tell me!” I plead. She doesn’t say anything more, merely points back to Prim. I follow the direction of her finger and see Prim lying on the bed again, completely still. Her skin has turned gray as ashes, and she looks like a statue. I automatically run to her, but it’s too late. When I touch her, she crumbles to pieces, as fragile as a sandcastle someone has knocked over._

 

_“No!”_

 

_Mom is right behind me again. Repeating her words like a mantra._

 

_“This is your fault. You did this.” Over and over again._

 

_But now it’s coming from every direction. The walls, the floor, the ceiling. It’s both screams and whispers, mixed all together, piercing my soul, leaving me feeling completely naked and vulnerable. I cower and cover my ears in a lame attempt to block out the sound. But it’s no good. Finally, I recognize the voice._

 

_It’s mine._

 

This is usually how the nightmares goes. Starting in a place that’s real and then morphing into something horrific, and they always leave me completely drained. Nothing will ever be as gruesome as watching my sister die. But sometimes the nightmares are pretty fucking close. They keep the memory of what prompted them alive, and I can’t decide if that’s a blessing or a curse.

 

The sun has just started to rise, and it’s not completely dark outside. I must have cried out in my sleep because Sanders is sitting by the bedside, observing me. I don’t know how aware he is, but I think I can see concern in his brown eyes. Or maybe I’m just imagining it.

 

“Come on,” I tell him and tap on the bed. I usually don’t allow him up here, but on these occasions I want his comfort. He jumps up and lies his head on the pillow next to me, almost like a human. I probably would have found it comical if I weren’t a complete wreck right now. I throw my arm around him and bury my face in his warm and smooth fur. I breath in his scent, and it soothes me.

 

A couple of hours later I wake up alone. I sit up and spot Sanders on the floor next to me. He usually doesn’t sleep in my bed the entire night because it’s too warm for him.

 

Yesterday, I brought the rest of the lab reports back home with me so I could finish them at home today. That’s one of the perks with this job. As long as you do your hours and show up at the mandatory meetings, you can pretty much work from home as much as you want. Of course, sometimes it helps to actually _be_ at the office if I have to talk to Beetee, my supervisor. It’s more convenient to just go into his office than to call him or send an e-mail. But since I’m just going to correct reports, I don’t need his help today.

 

The reports today are better overall, and the process is not as frustrating as yesterday. After a while I realize why. The thought of seeing Peeta tonight probably makes me a bit more lenient.

 

I already asked Haymitch if he could watch Sanders tonight. He tried to give me a hard time about it, but I know he loves Sanders as much as I do and won’t pass up the opportunity to spend some quality time with him. Since I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, Sanders will be spending the night at Haymitch’s.

 

It’s about 4 pm when I knock on his door. I hear some moving around on the other side, and then Haymitch opens with the distinctive glass of alcohol in his hand.

 

“Hey,” I greet him, and he gives me a quizzical look. Then he notices Sanders.

 

“Oh, right!” he exclaims as he realizes why I’m here and slams his hand on his forehead. He steps away from the door to let us in.

 

“Sorry, I don’t have much time. I packed some of his stuff; food, a blanket to sleep on and some other things.” I hand over the bag I’ve prepared for him. “You should be all set.” I give Sanders a pet. “Be nice to Uncle Haymitch, and don’t let him empty his liquor stash,” I tell him, and then he walks inside. Haymitch snorts.

 

“I think we’ll manage a night without you,” he says pointedly.

 

“Yeah, I think so too,” I agree. “I just gave him a walk so you probably just have to take him out once tonight before he goes to sleep.”

 

“Good.”

 

“Okay, see you tomorrow then. Thanks.” I don’t wait for his reply before turning around.

 

“You never told me what you’re doing tonight,” Haymitch calls after me. _I know, it was intentional._ I was hoping he wouldn’t ask, but I guess I wasn’t let off the hook that easily.

 

“Does it matter?”

 

“Just curious where you were planning to be the _entire_ night,” he muses, and I want to wipe the smile off his face. He continues. “Does it have anything to do with you grinning like an idiot this week? That’s very un-Katniss-like of you.” I didn’t realize my mood had rubbed off on my face, and the thought horrifies me. Have I been doing the same thing at work?

 

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart. Compared to your usual scowl, it’s a nice change.”

 

“Okay.” I don’t know if that’s reassuring, but I don’t comment on it.

 

* * *

 

Three hours later I find myself in front of another door. It’s not wooden, like Haymitch’s, but made of steel and glass. There doesn’t seem to be that many floors in this brick building, maybe three or four based on the rows of windows. The buzzer to my right has a list of maybe fifteen names, which confirms my suspicion, and I quickly find the one I’m looking for: _P. Mellark_. Here goes nothing.

 

“Hello?” Even through the intercom his soft voice carries through the line, and I get that weird flutter in my stomach again.

 

“Hey, it’s Katniss,” I tell him. I never know what to say in these things. He’s expecting me, so I guess he knew it would be me, making my announcement redundant, but he doesn’t mention it.

 

“Yeah, come on up. Third floor, apartment twelve.”

 

“Okay.” There’s a buzz and a click at the door. I enter and press the button by the elevator. During the short ride up my level of nervousness grows with each passing number on the display. I’m struck with the same insecurity as last time, but I guess that turned out relatively well. I’m broken from my reverie by the ping of the elevator, alerting me I’m on the right floor. There are only four apartments, and every door is marked with a number, making it easy to find the right one. I take a deep breath before knocking and don’t have to wait long before he opens the door.

 

His hair is disheveled, but he looks genuinely happy to see me. Those soft blue eyes almost cause my knees to buckle again, but I manage to stand firm. He’s wearing an apron that says, _I make the best Peeta bread,_ and underneath he has a short-sleeved striped shirt and jeans.

 

“Welcome to my humble home,” Peeta greets me and gives me a quick kiss. When his lips connect to my cheek, I feel a heat across my face and wetness pooling between my thighs. I hope he doesn’t notice and just smile back.

 

“Thank you. Cute apron, by the way.” He chuckles and runs his hand through his hair.

 

“Thanks. It was a gift from my brothers. Might as well embrace it, right?” He steps aside so I can enter, and I automatically scan the place. There is a large living room that’s connected to the kitchen, but I can’t tell how many more rooms there are down the hall. But the thing that strikes me is the large windows that go from the floor to the ceiling, allowing the living room to bathe in sunlight. I’m surprised that there are hardly any paintings anywhere. Being an artist and all, I guess I was expecting it to rub off on his home. But then again, if he sees it all day maybe it’s nice to come back to an uncluttered apartment.

 

“Do you want anything to drink? Beer, wine?” I _did_ drive here, but I guess I could take a cab home.

 

“Beer is fine.”

 

“Coming right up,” he turns around and walks to the fridge. _Yeah, he definitely should wear jeans more often._

 

There’s a kitchen island with bar stools on one side, and I take a seat while he gets the beer.

 

“This is a pretty large kitchen. Do you have lots of company over?” I hope he doesn’t. The thought of him having other women here leaves a bad taste in my mouth. He probably doesn’t have hard time getting girls to come over if he wants to, but I can’t blame him. It’s not like we’re exclusive or anything. I don’t even know if you could say we’re dating. I have no claim to him.

 

“Nah, not really.” He hands me the bottle. “My brothers come over about once a week. Other than that, no.” He takes a sip of his beer. “I guess it comes with the territory, you know. Growing up in a bakery, the step to cooking isn’t that far.” He mentioned sometime during the week that his father is a baker and that he and his brothers used to help out when they grew up.

 

“I guess it does. So are you any good?” I say and lean over to get a glimpse of what he’s making. It smells delicious.

 

“I’m letting you be the judge of that.” He brings out a spoon and dips it in the casserole. “Tell me what you think,” he says and brings the spoon to my mouth as he holds his hand underneath. It’s rich and savory, and I can’t hold back the moan that escapes my lips.

 

“Good?” I nod and hope I don’t look as flustered as I feel.

 

“What is it?”

 

“It’s chicken with mushroom, onions and a dash of tarragon. It’s almost done; it just has to simmer a while longer.” He walks toward the couch and gestures for me to follow.

 

When I sit down next to him he instantly takes my hand, his demeanor suddenly turning somber.

 

“There is something I want to tell you.” His eyes travel from mine to our intertwined hands. _Is this the I-don’t-want-to-see-you-anymore-speech?_ He can’t even look at me.

 

“What?” I manage to ask, trying to sound indifferent.

 

“It’s about...” He takes a breath. “The thing is...” He seems at a loss for words, and it’s kind of freaking me out. What is it that’s so hard to say? It can’t be anything good.

 

“Remember when I said I know what it feels like to not want to talk about a certain part of your life?” I nod. “Well, something... happened a couple of years ago.” He fixes his eyes on our hands. “And I’m still not comfortable talking about it. I want to tell you, I just don’t think I can yet.” Finally, he looks at me, and I notice that his eyes are a little glassy. My heart goes out to him.

 

“You’re the one who told me that I don’t have to give you my whole life story right away. It works both ways, you know,” I try to assure him.

 

“I just want you to know, and if you think it’s too much, I understand, and I won’t blame you if you walk away.” I cup his cheek in my hand.

 

I completely understand his line of thought. I’m having similar feelings about telling, or not telling, him the truth about my shattered family, but that doesn’t change how I feel about him. Not that I’m entirely sure _how_ I feel about him, because this is something completely new for me. But I want to believe that it has nothing to do with my broken family situation. And it seems like he doesn’t want his past to dictate the present, either. So when I tell him, “It’s gonna take a little more than that to scare me away,” I hope I can stick to those words.

 

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to make this awkward.” He seems relieved, and there’s a ping from the kitchen, announcing that something is done. “Saved by the bell, I guess,” he says and gets up. I don’t know if he’s referring to me or him. Maybe both.

 

I’m afraid that the dinner will be a little stiff after that, but Peeta is an expert in turning those sort of situations around. Alongside the casserole there’s spaghetti, which he insists is _bucatini,_ although I still don’t understand the difference. And something he calls cheese buns. It is what it sounds like; buns with melted cheese in the center, and they’re delicious. I probably eat too many, because when he asks if I want dessert, something I rarely turn down, I just say I have to wait for a moment and swig the last of the wine in my glass. While he clears off the table, I wobble to the couch. _Fuck, how much did I drink?_

 

“I’ll put this in the oven now and then it will be finished in about forty minutes. Sounds good?” he asks, holding something that looks like some sort of pie. I give him a thumbs up as I turn around and lean on the back of the couch.

 

“What is it?”

 

“It’s a pie with pears and almond paste,” he answers proudly. “It was the first thing I learned to make at the bakery, and I still think it’s the best,” he informs me as he puts it in the oven and sets the timer.

 

“So, why did your parents name you after bread, anyway? Was it a pun, or what?” The wine is starting to get to me, and I feel a little tipsy. Apparently that causes my usual filter to malfunction and let more than usual slip through. I’m afraid I might have overstepped my boundaries by asking him that, but he looks amused, so I guess I didn’t.

 

“Ah, I was waiting for that one!” He sits down next to me. “You restrained yourself pretty long before asking. Both mom and dad liked ‘Aaron,’ and they already decided on that name before he was born. I don’t think they expected to get two more boys, so after that, I guess they got creative.” That’s the first time he’s mentioned his mother.

 

The next forty minutes we talk about almost everything, but we manage to stay clear of the sensitive subjects. There’s time for that later. He actually manages to make me enjoy talking about nothing at all, and I think it’s cute how he makes big gestures with his hands when he’s passionate about something.

 

“So, in bucatini, there’s a hole running through the center that captures the sauce inside. With spaghetti it just glides right off. That makes all the difference in the world!”

 

As the evening progresses I find myself getting bolder, probably induced by the alcohol. My hand travels across the seat of the couch, painfully close to his. It wouldn’t take much to close the distance. I want to feel his hand around mine again, but I don’t know if I should. Before I can make a decision, I feel his fingers brush against mine, and there’s a tingling feeling in my belly. I don’t know if he meant to do it, but before I can find out there’s a ping from the kitchen.

 

“It’s been forty minutes already?” I wonder.

 

“I guess so.” He gets up, and the couch already feels empty. When he returns, he’s holding two plates, and my mouth starts to water. I don’t know if it’s because of him or the pie.

 

“The ice cream is homemade too,” he tells me.

 

“Of course it is. I didn’t expect anything less from you.” He simply smiles and hands me one of the plates. I take a piece of both the pie and ice cream, and it’s amazing. Before I can comment, Peeta speaks.

 

“What, no orgasm this time? I have to say I’m a little insulted,” he jokes. I want to laugh, but I have food in my mouth, so it just comes out as a snort.

 

“Shut up and eat your pears,” I manage to shoot back.

 

“Will do,” he says and digs in.

 

After we both clear our plates, a palpable silence falls between us that neither of us seems to know what to do with, and for the second time tonight, Peeta seems nervous, running a hand through his hair. I instinctively grab it, and he looks at me in surprise.

 

“You shouldn’t do that. You’ll mess it up,” I say as I try to fix his stray locks. I don’t realize what I’m doing until I notice how his eyes have locked on mine, and I retreat. “Sorry.”

 

“Don’t be sorry.” At this proximity I see the different shades of blue in his irises. There seems to be an ocean of different nuances, and I never really understood the expression of getting lost in someone’s eyes until now.

 

I don’t know who initiates it, but before I know it, I feel his lips against mine. It’s not as chaste the kiss in the parking lot, and it soon heats up even more as he puts his hands on my both sides of my face. I open my mouth, and when our tongues meet, the surge that rushes through me goes straight to my core. My hands trace a path along his arms, up to his hands and then back down again; I can’t get enough of him. I take advantage of my sudden boldness and swing my leg over his lap so I’m straddling him, and his hands move to the outside of my thighs as he starts stroking them back and forth.

 

I grab his collar and pull him toward me, as close as I can. When I do, he bucks his hips, and we both groan into each other’s mouths as he hits the spot that begs for attention, and I curse myself for not going with a skirt. It’s a wonderful mix of tongues clashing and swirling, and his hands travel to the hem of my sweater, gracing the skin underneath. _Please, a little higher._ As if he hears my inner plea, his fingers trace the skin just beneath my bra.

 

Then it’s over. He breaks the kiss and opens his eyes.

 

“Katniss...” His voice is hoarse, and his lips are puffy from our kiss. “I really like where this is going. I do.” _But._ “I just think we should wait...” He takes a deep breath. “Fuck, I’m totally messing this up, aren’t I?”

 

“No,” I croak, trying not to take this as a rejection.

 

“It’s just… I really like you, and I don’t want to ruin anything by moving too fast,” he says as he captures my cheek with his hand. I lean into his touch.

 

“It’s okay,” I try to reassure him, but I’m not sure if I’m very convincing.

 

“Please don’t think that I don’t want this. Because I do.” He puts his index finger under my chin and tilts my head up so he can look me straight in the eyes. “I do,” he repeats. And I believe him.

 

I take his hand and kiss his knuckles. “I believe you.”

 

“You do?”

 

“Yes.” He lets out a sigh. “I should probably get going anyway. It’s pretty late.” I stand up to grab my phone in my pocket to call a cab, but Peeta stops me.

 

“I don’t think you should go home by yourself. There are a lot of creeps out here at night. Especially on the weekends.”

 

“Then what should I do?”

 

“You can sleep in my bed,” he offers. “I can take the couch.” No. That doesn’t work. I will not make him sleep on the couch in his own home.

 

“You don’t have to do that.”

 

“It’s no problem, really,” he tries to argue.

 

“Let me make this clear, Peeta. You don’t owe me anything. If I stay, _I_ take the couch.” He holds up both of his hands in surrender.

 

“Okay,” he relents. “You seem pretty determined.” He leaves for a moment, and when he returns he places some sheets and a pillow on the couch. “Maybe these are too big for you, but it’s all I’ve got,” he says apologetically, handing me a T-shirt and a pair of sweatpants.

 

“That’s fine.” It really is. I prefer big clothes when I sleep. It’s much more comfortable. He rubs his hand against the back of his neck.

 

“Well, good night.”

 

“Good night.” He turns around to leave. “And Peeta.” His whips his head around. “Thank you.”

 

He gives me a shy smile. “You’re welcome.” With that, he walks to his bedroom.

 

It’s only two hours later when I wake up after falling asleep a lot faster than I had anticipated. Apparently, the wine runs right through me, and I have to pee. When I return from the bathroom I walk past Peeta’s door. It’s slightly ajar, and I steal a glance through the opening. The light from the hallway paints a streak on the floor and illuminates part of the room. There’s some commotion, and I realize the window is open. Then my eyes flicker to the bed. He is lying on his back, and he’s pushed the covers down to his waist. It’s not lost on me that he’s sleeping shirtless.

 

I want to admire the view but almost immediately notice that his sleep is not peaceful. Not at all how I imagined how he would look like. His brows are furrowed, and his usual soft facial features are gone, replaced with an expression I haven’t seen before. His head keeps snapping to the sides, and I’m pretty sure I know the reason why. He’s having a nightmare.

  
As a reflex I enter and sit on the side of his bed. I reach out and touch his face, and he immediately opens his eyes with a look of surprise. I say nothing, stroking his cheek with my thumb in a soothing motion. After a couple of seconds his face softens, and I’m rewarded with a hint of a smile. He scoots over, and that’s all the invitation I need to curl under the covers next to him. We don’t say anything. We don’t have to. Instead, he allows me to rest my head on his shoulder with my hand on his chest, and I fall asleep to the steady beat of his heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading and please leave a comment to let me know what you think. I'm maxwellandlovelace on tumblr if you have any questions about anything. There I'll also post snippets and SSS if you're interested.


	6. VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who left comments and kudos on this story. It warms my heart, knowing that you care about these characters as much as I do.
> 
> Please note that I'm going to change the rating of this story to E.
> 
> As always, papofglencoe, thank you so much for betaing this and for your support. You're the best!

I wake up in the same position I fell asleep in, my head on Peeta's shoulder and my hand firmly on his chest. He has his hand around one of my arms, and it feels like by being here, like this, will protect me from anything.

Even when I don't have nightmares I usually toss around quite a bit, so a whole night without moving an inch is highly unusual. My eyes slowly open, and I tilt my head a little to get a glance at Peeta. He's still sleeping, which gives me time to really appreciate him. I've never really considered 'beautiful' a word I would use to describe a man, but Peeta certainly is. From the strong cut of his jaw to the perfect curve of his lips and the way his blond hair frames his face, even when it's tousled from a night of sleep. If this isn't beauty personified, I don't know what is.

There is a noise outside, maybe a truck picking up the trash, and I think he's going to wake up from the sound. But he keeps snoring lightly, giving me more time to admire the man whose bed I've spent the night in. To be completely honest, if Peeta hadn't stopped us last night, I don't think I would have either. And I have to admit, I would have been a little disappointed if I had known that I would be spending the night but  _only_  sleeping. But in hindsight, I'm grateful. Yes, sex with Peeta would probably be mind-blowing but this, somehow, feels more intimate. He didn't shut me out when he was in such a vulnerable state. Instead he let me in, and, to me, that speaks volumes. Whatever he was talking about yesterday about his past, I'm sure he will tell me when the time is right.

The steady rise and fall of his chest relaxes me, and I revel in the warmth that his body generates. I trace my finger along his collarbone, across his neck and then over his perfectly chiseled pectoral muscles. I take advantage of his sleeping state and trail small kisses in the same path my finger had just taken. He starts to stir, and I think he's waking up, but I don't stop. I want to keep showering him in kisses to let him know that I  _want_  to be here. With him. And that I don't think less of him because of what happened last night. If anything, it makes me want him even more.

When I reach the other side of his chest, I notice something I haven't seen before. He has a tattoo? It's some italic lettering on the inside of his left bicep, and I can't quite make out what it says. I should have seen it yesterday, since the shirt he was wearing was short-sleeved. But I guess I was too busy looking at his beautiful face to notice.

"Don't stop." His voice is raspy from sleep, and I can't imagine hearing anything sexier. I put my right hand on his chest and raise my head to meet his gaze.

"I didn't know you were awake," I say, and when I see his eyes boring into mine, I'm suddenly aware of how close his body is to mine. I never bothered to put on the sweatpants he offered me yesterday, so I'm only wearing the T-shirt, and our legs are tangled together.  _Shit, I should have shaved._

"I didn't want to interrupt you," he explains with a pleased look on his face.

"You never told me you have a tattoo," I say, hoping that he will explain its meaning.

"I guess it slipped my mind."

"What does it say?"

"Cor Caroli." I furrow my brows to urge him to explain, because that doesn't tell me anything. He continues. "It means Charles's heart."

"Care to elaborate?" I ask, hoping I don't come off as rude.

"It's a star. A  _double_  star, actually." He brings his hands to his face and rubs his eyes. "My father's middle name is Charles." He pauses. "Mine too." His voice is lower now, and the impact of his reveal hits me hard. The bond between father and son must be incredibly strong.

"You must really love your dad," I conclude.

"I do. He was there for me when..." I can't tell if he's choking on his words or if his voice is still rough from sleeping.

"You mean…?" I say, hoping he understands my meaning.

"Yeah," he answers and turns his head away. I don't know what happened to him, but it must've been something life-changing. Whenever one of us has brought up the subject, he cannot look me in the eye. Almost like he's ashamed.

The vibrating sound from a phone surprise us both. It's not mine. It's still in my pants I discarded on the floor in the living room. Peeta reaches out to the nightstand and grabs his phone. When he flips it over, I see a smiling face with long blond hair on the screen. Of course. It's Delly.  _Doesn't she have a life of her own?_

Peeta groans and rejects the call, and it gives me an embarrassing amount of satisfaction.

"Why didn't you answer it?" I ask, trying not to let my elation shine through.

"It's probably something work-related, and I don't want to deal with that now," he tells me. And just like that, his demeanor completely changes, and he gives me a mischievous grin. "Besides, I have other things on my mind right now."

"Oh, really?" He flips me over so I'm lying on my back and he's hovering above me, supporting his weight on his elbows. The gesture is heart-warming, but I want nothing more than to feel his body closer to me right now.

"Really," he says and starts kissing my cheek, making my eyes flutter shut. He gives me open-mouthed kisses along the side of my neck and traces one of his hands along my arm. When he reaches my wrist he grabs it and brings it above my head. Then he gives the other one the same treatment, holding both my wrists in place with one hand.

"Peeta..." I sigh, because it feels so good I can't hold it in any longer. The effect his kisses have on me is nothing short of intoxicating, and I can't deny the desire I feel for him. And I can tell that it's affecting him in a similar way. His arousal presses against my thigh, and I can't help but feel a little proud for eliciting this kind of reaction from him. My mind flashes back to last night, when we found ourselves in the same predicament, and my hand easily wriggles free from his grip. I move it to his shoulder to give him a gentle push. Immediately, he stops and raises his head, a look of concern written all over his face.

"I thought you wanted to take things slow."

"Fuck it," he says, bringing his lips to mine. I open my mouth to let him in, and when our tongues meet, it has the same effect on me as before. I spread my legs a little, and he settles his hips between my thighs so there's only two thin layers of fabric separating us. He's still holding one of my hands above my head, but I move my other one to his curls and let them slip through my fingers, tugging lightly at the tips. He responds by thrusting his hips, and he hits just right, causing me to involuntarily moan into his mouth. Normally, I would find this embarrassing, but somehow, being here with Peeta makes me totally comfortable. He breaks the kiss and gives me a warm smile.

"Good?" he asks. I don't answer him. Instead, I put my hands on both sides of his face and bring those wonderful lips back to mine, hoping my actions tell him what my voice can't. I guess he takes the hint because I'm rewarded with another thrust, and this time, neither of us can keep quiet.

As if on cue, there's a knock at the door, causing us both to groan again, but this time from disappointment. He puts his forehead in the nook of my neck and sighs.

"You're not gonna answer it?"

"I will. I just… need a minute," he sighs and sits up on the side of the bed. I waste no time and get up, placing myself on my knees behind him, resting my arms on his shoulders and giving him light kisses on the side of his neck. He tilts his head to the side to grant me more access, and my arms snake around him.

"If you keep doing that, I'm not going to be able to answer the door." I smile to myself when I understand what he means and give him one last kiss before releasing him from my embrace. He gets up and pulls on a pair of sweatpants and a T-shirt. When he's at the doorframe he turns around.

"I'll get rid of whoever it is. Be right back." Then he turns to leave, and I admire the view I'm getting as he walks away. I lean back and bring the covers around me, revelling in the smell. They're clean but have definitely picked up on Peeta's scent. And I love it.

I can't hear the words spoken by the door, but I recognize the other voice. Delly. This woman is getting on my last fucking nerve. I don't know if she's doing it on purpose, and that's what's makes it even more frustrating. Peeta sounds a little agitated, and I move to the door to hear what they are saying.

"If you'd answered your phone I wouldn't have had to come here," she says.

"Well, I was busy," he sighs.

"Doing what?" Delly asks.  _Me._  "Never mind, you need to call her to sort this out, because she sure as hell isn't listening to me."

"Fine, I will. When Delly Cartwright curses, you know she means business." His irritated tone disappears and is replaced by a lighter one.

"Damn straight!"

I decide I can't hide in here the entire time, so I find a pair of sweatpants discarded on a chair and hope Peeta doesn't mind me borrowing them. I don't  _want_  to make a statement by coming into the living room with Delly there, but I'm aware of how it must look if I come waltzing in. But I don't want to tiptoe around her either. And if it gets her to step back a little, I'm not going to complain. Just when I'm about to exit the bedroom I run into Peeta's solid frame. The look on his face is a mix of surprise and… disappointment?

"You're leaving?"

"Yeah, I have to pick up Sanders. He's staying at my neighbor's, and I don't want to be late."

"Is something the matter? Did I do something wro..." I can't stand hearing him second-guess himself, so I stand on my toes to give him a quick kiss on the mouth.

"No. I just have to go." The soft smile I'm rewarded with tells me that I got my message across.

"Do you have time for breakfast, at least?"

"I think so."

"Great. I just have to make a quick phone call." I nod, and he raises his hand to tuck away a lock of hair behind my ear. "Just a heads up, Delly is in the kitchen, if you want to socialize while I'm gone. Or you can stay here." He lets his fingers linger by my ear before leaving. Apparently, he has a balcony in his bedroom that I didn't notice until now.  _Guess I was paying attention to other things._

When I enter the living room, I see Delly sitting by the kitchen island, flipping through her phone, on one of the barstools. I don't think she hears me because she shows no sign of acknowledging my presence.

"Hi," I say, and it comes out almost at a whisper. She snaps her head around, her eyes wide in surprise. I can tell she recognizes me, but she doesn't mention it.

"Oh, hi," she smiles, but it doesn't reach her eyes.

"Do you want coffee?" I offer.

"No, I can't stay." Her sunny demeanor she had a week ago at the art show is gone and is replaced by a more distant disposition. You could cut the tension with a knife.  _I should have stayed in the bedroom._

"Okay." Then I realize I don't know where Peeta keeps the coffee, and I have to start searching his kitchen to find it. After opening the second cupboard, Delly gets up from the chair as she clears her throat. She brushes past me to open a drawer to my left and pulls out a coffee jar. She sets it on the counter with a sigh.

"Here."

"Thanks." It's clearly not her first time here because she obviously knows her way around his kitchen. I don't know how I feel about that. "So what was the phone call about?" I try to strike up a conversation to break the stalemate.

"A woman from the art show got her bill and insists that it wasn't for the price she and Peeta had agreed upon. She wouldn't listen to me and demanded to speak to him directly."

"Sounds like a bitch."

This causes a chuckle from her. "She totally is. But to be honest, I think she just wanted to talk to Peeta. All the ladies at the gallery always get their panties wet when he makes time for them."  _Know the feeling._ "And he always manages to persuade them into thinking that they made a great deal, when in reality, it's the opposite."

That sounds a little malicious. Peeta's not the type to mislead people on purpose just to make a few bucks. Right?

"Don't get me wrong," Delly interrupts my thoughts. "He's a great artist. It just doesn't hurt that his appearance is in our favor." Is she for real? Like everything Peeta has to offer is his looks. But considering my reaction when I first saw him, I shouldn't judge, or I might have to buy new windows for my glass house.

"It doesn't bother you?" I wonder.

"What, the swooning? No, I'm used to it." She runs a hand through her hair before continuing. "Besides, Peeta and I had our fun."

 _Peeta and I had our fun._ What the fuck does that mean? I don't have time to find out because Peeta chooses this exact moment to come back.

"Crisis averted," he says when he enters.

"What was her excuse?"

I don't hear his reply because pictures of him and Delly start flashing before my eyes. I see them hugging and kissing. Their bodies clinging together as he fucks her into oblivion between the sheets of his bed.

What am I thinking? He's allowed to have a past. It's not like I thought he was a virgin; I'm certainly not. It just bothers me that his past conquest is still lingering in his life. Especially if he wants to start something new with me. And the way she takes him in, looking him up and down, tells me that she's not quite over him.

Delly leaves almost directly after Peeta comes back from his call, and I'm relieved that she didn't take me up on my offer about coffee.

"I have some leftover cheese buns if you want," Peeta interrupts my thoughts.

"Sounds good," I say, keeping my gaze fixed on the coffee cup in my hands.

"Is something wrong?"

"What?" My head snaps up, and I see his concerned face again. And I curse myself, knowing that I put it there.

"You haven't said much since Delly left." He puts the buns in the oven to warm them up and then turns to me.

"Sorry, I was just thinking."

"About what?" He seems genuinely curious.

_You. In bed. With other women._

"Do you have many exes, Peeta?" My question seems to catch him off guard. Good. I don't want him to have time to prepare. He takes a breath.

"I'm not gonna lie to you, Katniss. I've had my fair share of one-night stands. But only one serious relationship."

"When?" I ask tentatively.

"Many years ago. She was my high school sweetheart. Thought it was gonna last forever. Pathetic, huh?" His shoulders are slumped as he puts away the coffee jar.

"What happened?"

"Nothing. One day she told me that she simply didn't love me anymore and left," he murmurs.

"She just left?" I don't understand. How could anyone just walk away like that? Without even trying?

"Yes." His jaw clenches, and he seems a little upset. Is he still pining over this girl? "Why do you ask?"

"No reason. Just curious." I was hoping he would tell me if he and Delly were a thing. She's not the girl he's referring to, right? No, he would tell me if that was the case. That means that if they had a tryst, it was brief, not even worth mentioning. The realization gives me some comfort.

"What about you?" I shouldn't be surprised that he wonders the same thing about me, but I'm still lost in thought when he asks.

"What?"

"Do you have any exes I have to fend off?" he says as he takes out the cheese buns out of the oven.

"No, not really. Not any recent ones anyway." There's Darius, but I haven't talked to him in years, and I think bringing him up would only put a damper on things.

"Okay." He seems satisfied with my answer and hands me a plate. He doesn't say anything for a while, and the silence is a bit awkward. Is he still thinking about that ex-girlfriend? Or is he contemplating telling me about Delly? I try to gather some courage to ask him about it.

"Is there something you want to tell me, Peeta?" I ask, trying not to sound jealous.

He takes a breath but keeps silent. He leans back against the counter, his eyes locked on the floor.

"So, Rye and Aaron are coming by later tonight." Okay, I get it. His brothers are coming over and he wants me gone by then.

"You don't have to worry, Peeta." My voice is surly, but I don't care. "I have to pick up Sanders anyway. I'll be out of your hair." I say, getting up from the chair. I can't get out of here fast enough. I thought the connection we shared was more than just physical, but I guess I'm just another check mark on his bedpost. How could I have misread him that gravely? I can't believe how this morning could have started so well for it to end like this.

"What, no!" In the corner of my eye I see him scurry around the island, and he catches up with me just as I reach the door.

I feel his hand on my arm, and I instinctively flinch away, keeping my back to him. "Don't."

He immediately retracts his hand, as if I'm on fire. "I'm sorry, but that's..." His voice is pleading, but I don't want to hear it.

"Save it," I say without thinking. I don't want to look at him, afraid of what I'll see.

"You're not even going to give me a chance to explain?" I can hear his frustration. Instead of answering, I turn around and put my weight on one of my hips and cross my arms over my chest, finally meeting his gaze. He looks crestfallen. "My brothers are coming over tonight and..." He doesn't finish the sentence.

"I get it. It's fine," I tell him curtly. It's not, but I can't blame him for not feeling the same way I do.

"I want you to meet them." His voice is lower, so I must have misheard him.

"What?"

"I want you to meet my brothers. And I want them to meet you." Instantly, I uncross my arms and put my hands on his chest. When I do, he lets out a breath I didn't know he was holding. I feel horrible for jumping to conclusions and for thinking the worst of him, when all he wanted was for me to meet his family.

"I thought..." but I never get to finish, because I feel his arms around me, hugging me tight.

"I know." I let my arms loop around his waist to return his embrace. I relish in the warmth he radiates, and once again I feel the beat of his heart soothing me. "I thought you were gonna walk out and never come back."

"I'm sorry. I guess I can be a little impulsive sometimes." I straighten up and meet his eyes.

"That's not always a bad thing," he winks. I let out a chuckle, and he releases me.

"Maybe not."

"So, do you want to come over tonight?" he asks tentatively, rubbing his hand along the side of his neck.

"I don't know. I don't think I can leave Sanders at Haymitch's another night without any kind of notice."

"He can come too," Peeta suggests. "I'd love to meet the little guy!"

"He's not so little," I caution.

"And you're avoiding the question." After what I just put him through, I can't deny him this.

"Okay. I'll come. If there are cheese buns," I say, trying to put on a convincing smile.

"Oh, that's a small price to pay. Consider it done." I'm about to open the door, but Peeta stops me, putting his hand on mine.

"Katniss?"

"Yeah?"

"Aren't you forgetting something?" He looks amused, but I don't understand what he's talking about.

"What?" He lets his eyes wander up and down, like he's inspecting me.

"Not that I'm complaining, but I don't think you want to go out wearing my clothes," he smirks. I look down, and to my horror, I realize I was about to walk out the door wearing the same clothes I'd slept in.

I don't know if it's the tension from this morning finally letting go or the emotional roller coaster I've been riding today, but I can't stop myself from laughing out loud. Peeta soon joins me, and his laughter is music to my ears.

When Peeta cleans up after our breakfast, I swiftly change my clothes and, before I go, ask him, "So, do you approve?"

He leaves the kitchen and stands before me, letting one of his hands rest on my hip.

"Hey, you had my approval earlier, too." He brings his other hand to my chin to tilt my head up. Once again I get to feel his lips on mine. He starts out slow by nibbling at the corner of my mouth, and when I feel his tongue against my lips, asking for entrance, I open my mouth. He drags me to him so our hips are flush, and his hand moves from under my chin so that he can bury his fingers in my hair, keeping my head in place. I sling my arms around his neck, trying to get a little closer, and the way we're holding each other feels so intimate. But I can't stay any longer, and it takes every ounce of willpower I can muster to break the kiss.

"I'll take that as a 'yes.'"

"You should," he says sincerely. His hand lingers by my waist, and I grab it to kiss his fingers.

"I'll see you tonight."

"Okay."

It's just before noon when I get back home. I park the car and decide to walk directly to Haymitch's to pick up Sanders. Right after I knock, I realize I'm in the same clothes as yesterday. I can't leave now to go change, and I have no idea how I'm going to explain it either. Other than hoping he doesn't notice.

No such luck. When Haymitch opens, I can tell that my knock woke him up. But when he sees me, he recognizes my attire. I try to look indifferent about it. He's about to say something but apparently changes his mind, settling for a smug look instead, and the look tells me everything I need to know. He knows exactly what I was doing last night.

_Fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I'd really appreciate if you'd leave a comment to let me know what you think. I'm maxwellandlovelace on tumblr if you want to chat.


	7. VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's supporting me and this story! And papofglencoe, thank YOU! Not only for being an amazing beta, but for being a huge support in this, and other things.
> 
> Sexual situations and explicit language in this chapter.

“What’s with the sour face?”

 

Apparently my attempt at looking indifferent doesn’t come off the way I want it to.

 

“I’m not.”

 

“Good. Because from the looks of it, you had a very nice evening.” I want to wipe the grin off his face, but at the same time I don’t want to indulge him by acknowledging his comment.

 

“Is Sanders around?” I say, trying to spot him somewhere behind Haymitch, standing on my toes.

 

“So, you’re going with the ‘I’m-going-to-pretend-I-didn’t-hear-you’ strategy. Not your strong suit, sweetheart,” he says, slowly shaking his head, his stupid grin still etched on his face.

 

“Oh, I heard you. I’m just ignoring it,” I deadpan and try to put on a neutral face, but judging by my previous attempt, I’m not successful.

 

“Come on, humor me. Consider it payment for watching your dog.”

 

“And here I was, thinking you did that from the goodness of you heart.” I could try to get out of it, but I know I’m fighting a losing battle. He’s gonna make me spill the beans. “Okay, I met a guy.”

 

He claps his hands together and starts rubbing them. “Oh, goodie.” He gestures for me to come inside. I reluctantly oblige and walk by him. I’m surprised when I enter the kitchen to see that he actually has done the dishes. Sanders is lying on the floor, and he raises his head when I come in, but stays down.

 

I shoot him a glance. “Don’t get up on my account.”

 

“So why is it such a bad thing that you met a boy?” Haymitch cuts right to the chase as soon as we sit by the table and he’s poured himself a drink.

 

“It’s not.”

 

“Could have fooled me.”

 

“It’s just… I don’t want to give in to everyone who’s been bugging me about getting a boyfriend. It’s not my mission in life to have a man by my side.”

 

“Is it your mission in life to _not_ have a man by your side?” he questions.

 

“No, but...”

 

“So you’re just proving a point,” he concludes. “You’re not less independent because you’re sharing a bed with someone.”

 

I put up both my hands. “Okay, I’m not discussing that with you,” I say pointedly, getting up from the chair. “Come on, Sanders. Let’s go.” Both Sanders and Haymitch follow me.

 

When I’m at the door, he breaks the silence. “Whatever that boy is doing, he’s doing something right.” He’s right. The attraction I feel toward Peeta is more than just carnal. I can’t put my finger on what it is, but spending time with him puts my mind at ease. Just thinking about him makes the corners of my mouth pull up into a smile.

 

Haymitch points at me. “See?” I shake my head with a scoff, knowing that if I say something he’s going to see right through me and know he’s right. And I’ll never live to see the end of it.

 

When I close the door behind me I feel a buzz in my pocket. It’s a text from Peeta.

 

_Peeta: Aaron is bringing his girlfriend tonight. Is that alright with you?_

 

I’m already pretty nervous about meeting his brothers, but he’s so kind, asking me if I’m okay with it. I guess I can endure one more person. Who knows? Maybe we’ll hit it off.

 

_Katniss: It’s okay. As long as she doesn’t expect any girl talk from me._

 

_Peeta: That won’t be a problem;)_

 

I wonder what he means, but I don’t ask him about it. I’ll probably find out tonight anyway.

 

* * *

 

Peeta texts me the code for the door, saving me from making another call on the intercom, and when I knock on the door it takes some time for him to answer. When he finally does, I’m not disappointed. At this point, he could be wearing sweats and I would still find him sexy. _Yes, sweatpants, hanging low on his hips, and nothing else._ Some of his hair falls in his eyes, and he shakes his head to get rid of it.

 

“Sorry, I was in the kitchen and had to wash my hands first.” He immediately spots Sanders, sitting by my feet, and gets down on his level. “Sanders, I presume?” Peeta puts his hands on both sides of Sanders’ face and starts rubbing him. Sanders immediately responds by nudging him with his head, and Peeta jokingly falls backward as if they’re wrestling. I’m amused by their interaction and observe them playing for a while.

 

Finally, I clear my throat. “I think someone just found a new best friend.”

 

Peeta gets up, wiping his hands on his apron, and plants a quick kiss on my mouth.“Sorry, I got carried away there for a second. Besides, I don’t think you have to be jealous. I just cut some steaks. I think he only sees me as a piece of meat.”

 

I drag my finger along his throat and under his chin. “He wouldn’t be the only one.”

 

Peeta’s clear blue eyes widen in surprise when he realizes what I’m implying. He grabs my wrist and drags it behind his neck, pulling me closer in one swift motion, and I can smell his cologne. He lets go of my arm and locks his hands at the small of my back. How can such a small gesture be so sexy? Our eyes lock together and everything around us seems to disappear. He starts nipping at my lips, but I’m not having it. I want more. I _need_ more. I open my mouth to deepen the kiss, and he follows my lead and captures my bottom lip in his mouth, sucking it lightly. I bring my hands up to his hair and, grabbing his curls, tug him toward me to get a little closer. I didn’t know you could crave someone’s touch this much. Before long our tongues swirl around each other, the kiss heating up, and I want to feel his tongue on other parts of my body. His hands starts to wander, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. When one of them grabs my ass my legs give out completely, requiring Peeta to support my weight. I can picture us doing this forever, but without the restriction of clothes. The feeling of completely surrendering myself to him like this _should_ feel wrong, but it doesn’t. Everything feels right. Suddenly, I realize why I’m here and pull away, aimlessly looking around.

 

“Your brothers aren’t here, right?” I ask, and it comes out a little more high-pitched than intended. Peeta chuckles, dragging a thumb along those sweet lips to remove the evidence of our kiss.

 

“No, they won’t be here for about an hour,” he smiles. “But I guess I should go back to the kitchen. Do you want anything to drink?”

 

“I could go for a beer.” I can’t help to draw parallels to last night when we were in this exact same position. Me drinking beer while he cooks. Even though it’s only been twenty four hours, so much has happened that it’s hard to believe. I was nervous before about meeting his brothers, but now, here with him, I feel like I can conquer anything. Including Delly.

 

“What are you thinking about?” Peeta asks.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“You’re smiling.” He’s smiling too.

 

“Nothing.” He doesn’t press the issue and continues to prepare our dinner. We don’t talk much; I just enjoy observing him doing something that looks like it comes naturally to him while Sanders lies on the floor next to me. It’s a comfortable silence with occasional stolen looks between us. Some are innocent, but some leave me wanting more. Remembering how good it felt this morning, with him nestled between my thighs, his body pressing me into the mattress, is making it hard to control myself from dragging him into the bedroom to finish what we started.

 

After a while Sanders gets up and walks around the island to sit next to Peeta, giving him his best puppy dog eyes. I can tell Peeta wants to give in, but before he has the chance I jump in.

 

“Sanders, don’t beg.”

 

“Oh, come on. He’s been lying there for half an hour. I think he deserves a piece,” Peeta argues, giving me the same pleading eyes Sanders just gave him.

 

“No. If you give in now, he’ll be following you around for the rest of the evening.” He wipes off his hand and gives Sanders a pet on the head.

 

“Sorry, bud. Guess we have to listen to mommy.” I have referred to myself like that countless times when I’m talking to Sanders, but when Peeta says ‘mommy’ something hits me right in the gut. Does he see himself as a parent someday? Is that something he expects? Because that is something he will never get from me. Maybe I should tell him. No, it’s too soon to be having _that_ conversation.

 

I don’t have time to dwell on it because Peeta’s finished in the kitchen, leaving us thirty minutes before the guests arrive. How _ever_ will we pass the time? Unfortunately, we have an audience, and neither of us are comfortable doing anything like _that_ with Sanders watching our every move.

 

“You told me to bring him,” I inform Peeta. “Now you’ll pay the price,” I try to chastise him, but the smile on my face betrays me.

 

“I don’t think I’m the only one.”

 

“I guess I should take him for a walk, anyway.” Besides, I need to cool off.

 

“I’d come with you, but it’s a cardinal sin to leave the house with the stove on,” he says as he rubs Sanders’ belly.

 

“It’s okay.” I need a to clear my head anyway to get these hormones in check. I can’t be drooling all over Peeta when his brothers arrive. “Come on, Sanders!” But he doesn’t move, ignoring me so that Peeta will continue to pet him. “Hey, traitor! Get over here.” The sternness of my voice catches Sanders’ attention, and he reluctantly walks to me with his head hanging low.

 

“Remind me to never get on your bad side,” Peeta calls from the couch as Sanders and I leave the apartment.

 

We only take a ten-minute walk, and when we get back I don’t bother knocking. Peeta doesn’t seem to hear me come in because he remains in the kitchen with his back to me, chopping onions. I walk over to stand behind him, and when I put my hands on his shoulders, he jerks in surprise.

 

“Hey.” I try to put on my best seductive voice and start caressing his back.

 

“You scared me half to death, woman!” His tone is playful, but he doesn’t turn around, allowing me to continue to appreciate his body.

 

My hands snake around him, winding around his waist and sneaking beneath his apron so that I can hug him from behind, my cheek pressed against his back.

 

“Sorry, I couldn’t help myself.” And I can’t help myself from what I’m about to do now, either. “Let me make it up to you.” My right hand drops a couple of inches, and I start rubbing him through his pants, feeling him harden at my touch. He drops the knife he’s holding, and it makes a thud as it hits the cutting board.

 

“Fuck, Katniss!” he grunts, putting his hands on the counter and leaning forward a bit. It only spurs me on further, and I press a little harder, eliciting another groan from him. The sounds he makes is turning me on too, and I’m glad I’m letting him support some of my weight. The feel of his cock, even if it’s through the fabric of his pants, sends a wave of fire through me, and I never want to stop.

 

“My fourteen-year-old self is cursing me right now, but just a heads-up that my brothers are not the knocking types,” he pants, causing me to stop immediately. When I do, he quickly turns around and captures my mouth with his in a passionate kiss. He puts his hands on my hips and pulls me toward him, allowing me to once again feel his erection.

 

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” he murmurs when we pull apart. “I have to cool off.”

 

“I would suggest taking Sanders out, but we just came back.” I try to keep my amusement at his predicament to myself, but I can’t keep a poker face.

 

Peeta points a finger at me. “Hey, this is your doing.” But he can’t help but smile at the situation either.

 

* * *

 

Peeta’s brothers barge through the door about fifteen minutes later; he was right about the knocking part. We both walk to the door, me right behind him, to greet them. I observe the three of them as Peeta gives both of them large hugs. “We didn’t interrupt anything, did we, bro?”

 

“Nothing more than usual,” Peeta replies effortlessly. He’s probably used to their teasing, being the youngest and all. Both Rye and Aaron look like different versions of Peeta; no one could ever question their kinship. Peeta turns to me.

 

“Katniss, this is Rye.” He points to one of them. His hair is slightly more yellow than Peeta’s, but other than that, he’s like a carbon copy of his younger brother. “And this is Aaron.” They all have a muscular build, but Aaron is the leanest. Both his brothers shake my hand, and I see Peeta in the corner of my eyes smiling proudly at us when we do.

 

“Where’s Johanna?” Peeta asks.

 

“She’s parking the car. She didn’t approve of my choice of parking and was convinced she could find a closer one. She’ll be up soon, after circling the block a couple of times.”

 

“And who’s this guy?” Rye calls from the couch where Sanders is. I walk to them, as Peeta and Aaron go to the kitchen to grab some beers.

 

“That’s Sanders,” I tell him. “I hope you’re not allergic. Peeta said it was okay to bring him.”

 

“Of course he did,” he smirks. “What breed is it?”

 

“He’s a Bernese Mountain Dog. They’re Swiss.” Even if we just met, the small talk comes natural. I guess it runs in the family.

 

Just then, Peeta and Aaron join us from the kitchen with five beers in their hands.

 

“It’s that Czech beer you suggested,” Peeta says, looking at Rye. “Lucky for you, Katniss already gave her seal of approval on it yesterday.”

 

“Really?” Rye turns his head to me with a grin as he accepts the bottle. “So did you spend the night, Katniss?” he asks as he wiggles his eyebrows. Before I can respond, Peeta cuts in.

 

“That’s none of your fucking business,” he admonishes, but Rye only seems amused at getting a rise out of his little brother.

 

“So, ‘yes’ then,” he concludes with a content smile.

 

I’m touched by how Peeta instantly defended my honor, and I can see how tense his shoulders are and how his jaw is clenching. I put one of my hands on his shoulder to calm him and look Rye in the eyes, noticing that they are almost the same shade as Peeta’s.

 

“Yes. And if you’d known what we did on that couch, you wouldn’t be sitting on it,” I deadpan, trying to keep my voice from faltering. There’s a moment of silence as my words sink in. All three Mellark brothers look at me with different levels of disbelief. Then Aaron bursts out laughing, and soon the others follow.

 

“She got you, man.” Aaron looks at the middle brother and then slings his arm around me. “I think you’re gonna fit in here. Not many can shut Rye up like that,” he says in a warm voice. And just like that, after only a couple of minutes with Peeta’s brothers, I feel welcome in this family. I can see why they are so close.

 

“What’s with the commotion?” We all turn our attention to the woman standing by the door. She’s petite, with brown hair, and she’s rocking a pixie cut. Peeta sets his beer on the table and walks toward her, his hand brushing against mine as he passes me.

 

“Johanna!” he exclaims as he gives her a big hug. “It’s been way too long.”

 

“I know,” she says, returning his embrace. Peeta told me that he and Johanna were friends before she started dating Aaron, and I’m glad he did. Otherwise I would have been a little concerned by their closeness.

 

“Hey! You sure you’ve got the right brother?” Aaron yells to Johanna. Both of them shoot him a glare. Then Johanna’s eyes settle on me, her eyes squinting, like she’s inspecting every part of me.

 

“So, you’re Katniss.” She’s not angry, but she doesn’t seem very happy with meeting me either. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think that _she_ was Peeta’s older sibling, not Aaron or Rye.

 

* * *

 

Peeta made good on his promise to make cheese buns for tonight, and those are the first I go for when we’re all seated at the table. I’m sure everything is delicious, but if I only eat them tonight, I’d be happy too. Peeta and I sit next to each other, with Aaron and Johanna across from us and Rye on the short side. As everyone digs in on the steaks and oven-baked potatoes an unexpectant silence falls across the table.

 

“Oh my god, Peeta! This is amazing!” Johanna bursts out. “If I wasn’t already banging your brother...” She doesn’t finish, but we all know what she’s talking about.

 

“You know I’m sitting right here?”Aaron cuts in.

 

“Besides, not interested,” Peeta says, giving my hand a squeeze under the table.

 

“Ouch,” Johanna feigns distress.

 

“Yeah, well, karma’s a bitch,” Peeta says as he takes a sip of his beer, a smile dancing on his lips.

 

“Oh, come on. Let it go!” Johanna complains, but I can hear the light tone in her voice.

 

“Hey, some wounds cut deeper than others,” Peeta pouts, but it’s obvious that they’re only teasing.

 

I’m at a loss, having no idea about what they’re talking about. “What?”

 

“Peeta’s been holding a grudge against Johanna for over a year now,” Rye explains.

 

“Why?” I look at Peeta.

 

“Do you want to tell her about your sins, or should I?” Peeta shoots a look toward Johanna.

 

She sighs loudly. “Once,” she murmurs. “Once, I put ketchup on his carbonara.”

 

Peeta points the bottom of his bottle to Johanna. “I don’t need that kind of negativity in my life.”

 

“Yeah, don’t mess with Peeta and his pasta,” Aaron informs me. “Did he give you the bucatini speech, yet?” he asks, locking his eyes on me. I remember how Peeta explained the difference last night.

 

Aaron smirks and adds, “Guess he did.” His eyes move from mine to Rye’s. “You owe me twenty bucks.”

 

Peeta snorts and buries his head in his hands. “You guys are the worst.”

 

Rye slings his arm around Peeta. “That’s what big brothers are for.”

 

“One year, Rye,” Peeta says. “You’re _one_ year older than me,” he sighs.

 

“And don’t you ever forget it,” Rye beams and lets him go. I find all of this extremely endearing.

 

As the evening progresses the number of empty beer bottles on the counter keeps growing, and by the time we’ve finished both dinner and dessert, we’re all a little bit under the influence. Not drunk, just buzzed.

 

“Did Peeta tell you about the time...?”

 

“Enough,” Peeta interjects. “I would like to have _some_ dignity left after tonight. You’ve done enough damage as it is.” He’s not wrong. They’ve revealed a lot of childhood stories at Peeta’s expense tonight. Like how he, at the age of six, spent the entire day in the sun and turned completely pink, earning him the nickname ‘babe’ for the majority of their childhood.

 

“I need a smoke anyway,” Johanna announces and shoots me a look. “Katniss?”

 

“No, I don’t smoke,” I decline.

 

“Then you can keep me company. These wimps never do.” She gets up and drags me through Peeta’s bedroom to get to the balcony. As soon as she lights her cigarette, she wastes no time.

 

“Did you fuck him yet?” she asks, like she’s talking about the weather. I’m so taken aback by her question that my beer almost comes out through my nose.

 

“What?”

 

“You might as well tell me. I’m gonna coax it out of Peeta later anyway.” Even if she does, I’m not comfortable telling her that. I’ve only just met her.

 

“I don’t know if...”

 

“Fine, don’t tell me.” She blows out smoke from the corner of her mouth. “But if you haven’t, you should. He seriously needs to get laid.” She reminds me of Peeta’s confession this morning that still lingers in the back of my mind.

 

“From what I’ve heard, he doesn’t need any help in that department,” I say dryly.

 

“He doesn’t.” She pauses and takes another smoke from her cigarette. “But the celibacy he’s been living in for the last year needs to end.” This is new information. When Peeta talked about his previous trysts, I assumed they were recent. Guess I was wrong.

 

“Besides,” Johanna continues. “That was more of a coping mechanism. Filling a void, so to speak. I never met any of them. Neither did Aaron or Rye.”

 

The implication of her words speaks volumes. He never introduced anyone to his brothers before. Except me. I can’t wait for these people to leave, so I can show him how much that means to me.

 

“I’m gonna be upfront with you,” Johanna pulls me from my stupor and puts out her cigarette. “You seem like a nice person. And god, he’s such a sap when he talks about you!” She shakes her head, and I think I can catch the hint of a small smile. Then, her face turns sober. ”But if you hurt him in _any_ way, I will put an axe in your face,” she says as she leans against the railing. Her voice is stern, and, by the looks of it, she’s not kidding around.

 

“Hey, Johanna.” Peeta pokes his head through the door. “I’m gonna sleep in this room later. Are you done polluting the air?”

 

“Riiight, sleep,” she says, rolling her eyes.

 

“Seriously?” He shakes his head and looks at me. “See what I have to deal with?”

 

I reach out and pat his head. “Aw, poor you.” I drag my fingers through his curls before letting go.

 

* * *

 

As much as I’ve enjoyed the company tonight, I’m not sad when they leave. Peeta stands behind me with his hands on my shoulders; I’ve been drinking a little more than I usually do, and I’m grateful he keeps me steady as we say our goodbyes. When Peeta says goodbye to his brothers, Aaron puts his mouth by his ear and says something, but I don’t catch it. It’s obvious it wasn’t meant for my ears, but I’m still curious. Peeta just responds with a smile and nods as he releases his brother.

 

After they leave, Peeta starts putting away the dishes.

 

“Shit, I have to take Sanders for a walk,” I realize, slapping my hand on my forehead.

 

“You shouldn’t go by yourself,” Peeta calls from the kitchen as he puts the last plates in the dishwasher. Then he comes over to me, burying his hands in my hair. I close my eyes as he drags his fingers all the way to the tips. “Let me do it,” he offers.

 

“I can’t ask you to do that.”

 

“You didn’t. I volunteered.”

 

I lean my head on his chest, my hands moving upward on his back so I’m hugging his shoulders and letting out a sigh, “Thank you.” Then I remember what his brother said and add, “Babe.”

 

“Oh, they’re gonna pay for that,” he complains, but I don’t really think he minds. He moves to leave, but I hold him a little tighter, not ready to let go yet. The warmth he radiates is so soothing that if I fell asleep here, standing like this, I wouldn’t complain. He puts his hands in my hair again, but this time he tilts my head up and gives me a kiss on the mouth. I taste the beer on his lips as I return his kiss.

 

“I’ll be right back,” he says as he pulls away. He gives me a quick kiss on the nose before leaving with Sanders. This is the first time I’ve been alone in his apartment, and I take my time to look around. Not poking around, just looking. There are a some photos on the wall, next to the living room table. All of them are of Peeta and his brothers. They’re in the same position in every one; Rye in the middle with Peeta to his right and Aaron to his left. Apparently, they’ve been taking the same picture every year since they were about ten.

 

I take a good look at them, and my eyes are drawn to Peeta in each. I get to see how he outgrew his chubby cheeks in his adolescence and how he grew into the sexy, broad-shouldered man I met not so long ago. But I stop short when I get to a photo that was taken two or three years ago. He’s smiling into the camera, but his eyes seem cloudy and unfocused. The sparkle he had in the previous ones is gone and doesn’t return in any of the subsequent ones. I want nothing more than to put it back there.

 

I turn my head at the sound of the door and see Peeta returning with Sanders. I slouch down on the couch as Peeta comes over.

 

“How did it go?” I ask as he sits next to me.

 

“Great. The poor guy is exhausted. I think he’s sound asleep at the door already.”

 

“Good.” I grab the collar of Peeta’s shirt to pull him toward me and give him a long, wet kiss. He seems surprised, but catches on quickly, his tongue meeting mine. I lean back to drag him with me so that we’re in the same position as this morning, with him between my legs, pressing against my core. I let go of his collar and fumble with the buttons on his shirt. At this, he moves one of his hands to the hem of my sweater, caressing the skin underneath. His hands are warm, but when he touches me, goosebumps break out all over my body and the thrill of his hands on me sends electrical surges straight to my clit.

 

A moan escapes my lips as he moves his hand upward, kneading my breast through the fabric of my bra, and my heart beat starts pounding in my ear. His mouth moves from my lips to the side of my neck, and I automatically buck my hips, searching for the hardness I can feel through his pants. But I need more, and his shirt is in the way. I’ve been fumbling with the buttons this entire time and haven’t made any progress.

 

“These motherfucking...” I sigh in exasperation. Peeta’s mouth leaves my neck as he pulls back.

 

“Let me help you with that.” He swiftly unbuttons his shirt and shrugs it off as I admire his upper body. I sit up and instinctively start to kiss his neck, collarbone and chest. I press one of my hands on his shoulders, urging him to lie back on the couch so we’re changing positions, with me on top. Peeta complies, lying on his back as I continue to pamper him with kisses. I want to lick his abs, so I kiss my way there. When I reach my destination, he puts his hands in my hair and starts massaging my scalp, letting out a contented sigh. It feels so incredibly good. _This_ feels so incredibly good.

 

After a couple of seconds of this, he pulls my head up to his, locking our lips together. His tongue easily seeks out mine, his hand finding its way back under my sweater. When he reaches my breast again, I sigh into his mouth. Even with my eyes closed I know he’s smiling, and as he drags his thumb on the inside of my bra, my nipple hardens instantly when he starts stroking it. When he does, all the reservations I might have had vanish, and I grind myself against him. He responds by bucking his hips, giving me some much needed friction. In any other situation I would be mortified by the sounds that escape my mouth, but they only seem to spur Peeta on, like he finds them irresistible. And then both of his hands are cupping my breasts, squeezing and rubbing them in all the right ways. When he uses the pads of his thumbs to rub small circles across my nipples, I feel another wave of pleasure rush through me, making me even wetter for him. Who would have thought dry humping could feel this good? No one has ever made me feel this way just by touching me like this.

 

I’m putty in his warm hands, and after a while I can’t hold up my body any longer. I reluctantly pull away from him, and I straighten up so that I’m sitting, grateful that the couch is wide enough to allow me to straddle his hips. I notice my sweater has ridden up, but instead of pulling it back down, I drag it over my head and fling it away, not caring where it lands. My bra is also a mess, so I throw that off too. When I look back at Peeta, he’s looking at me in pure shock. His jaw is slack, but his eyes have taken on a new type of hunger I haven’t seen there before. He licks his lips and reaches out to slowly drag one of his thumbs across the hardened peak of my nipple. The gesture causes me to shudder, and I’m suddenly aware of how exposed I am.

 

“You’re beautiful,” he says. His voice is dark and so sincere that I have no choice but to believe his words.

 

“You too,” I sigh in response. He smiles and straightens up so his head is level to my bare breasts. Without hesitation, he envelopes my left nipple in his mouth and starts stroking it with his tongue, one hand caressing my other breast while his free hand presses me firmly on my back. If it was possible, I’d grind myself even harder on his cock. I want him to feel the same way I do right now. Not knowing what to do with this intense pleasure, my hands go straight to his hair, grabbing onto it.

 

I’m so lost in the way Peeta touches me that I hardly notice when he lifts me up and carries me to his bedroom. My legs automatically lock around his waist. I could argue I do it to help him support my weight, but it’s really to keep our bodies connected. As he kicks the door shut with his foot, I start kissing his face. I don’t care if he can’t see where he’s going.

 

He lowers me onto his bed, and I release my lock on him. I crawl backward on my elbows until I reach the headboard. Peeta follows, hovering above me, his intense stare sending shivers down my spine. His lips connects with my neck, and he swirls his tongue in a circular motion as he slowly moves his head down to my breasts again. I arch my back to get him, if possible, a little bit closer. His hands find their way behind my back as he trails kisses down to my stomach. His tongue dips into my belly button, and I can’t hold back a moan. His tongue. His hands. Everything about him is perfection.

 

He moves his body so we’re flush, his chest pressed to mine. I can feel him straining through his pants, and I buck my hips to relieve some tension. He groans and kisses my neck in response.

 

“Can I taste you?” he asks tenderly.

 

He’s already tasted every other part of my body. Why would I deny him this? I usually don’t enjoy it very much, not liking how exposed I am. But with Peeta, it feels different. If he wants it, I want it too.

 

“Yes,” I pant.

 

The heartwarming smile he gives me only makes me wetter in anticipation, but Peeta takes his time. Kissing his way down my body. Kissing my nipples. Kissing my stomach. His fingers start working on the buttons of my pants. He’s more successful than I was with his shirt, and before long he drags my pants off my legs. He immediately starts stroking me through my panties, and I’m a little ashamed of how they’re already soaked. But it’s easily overshadowed by how good his fingers feel.

 

“You’re so wet,” he murmurs.

 

The sincerity of his voice gives me the confidence to tell him the truth. “For you.” He grabs the fabric of the last remaining piece of clothing on my body and pulls it off, like it’s offending him. When he drags his finger across my entrance my head falls backward, hitting the headboard. He gives me open-mouthed kisses along the inside of my thighs, and the light stubble on his cheeks tickles a little. But he continues to stroke me with his finger, teasing me by dragging it along my slit, agonizingly slow. I can’t take it any longer.

 

“Peeta, please.”

 

“What?” he asks innocently.

 

“Lick me,” I breathe.

 

He drags his tongue in the same path his finger just took in one slow motion. When he applies some pressure on my clit, I cry out. I’ve got a beautiful man between my legs, and I don’t care if anyone knows it.

 

“Oh, holy Jesus fucking christ!”

 

“Hey, don’t give him all the credit,” Peeta says, sounding offended.

 

“Shut up.” _How dare he stop?_ “Get back to work.”

 

“Yes, ma’am.”

 

He starts swirling with his tongue again, and it sends shivers through my body, causing me to shudder. He hikes my legs up onto his shoulders, and while his tongue works my clit, one of his fingers finds its way inside me. I love it, but when I close my eyes it’s his cock I see sliding in and out of me. He flicks his tongue up and down. Lapping and sucking like a parched man who’s never seen water before, and, as the feel of his tongue becomes more intense, I start bucking my hips. This seem to spur him on even more, and he adds another finger.

 

“Fuck! Yes, more!” I manage to cry out. He’s plunging two fingers in and out of me. Faster and faster. His mouth must have been made for this, and if my heart could beat any faster, it would. One of his hands finds my breasts and he drags his thumb back and forth, across my nipple. He flicks his tongue up and down my clit, and when he curls his fingers inside me, I feel that familiar tingling in my lower belly. I don’t know what to do with my hands, so I grab his hair to have something to hold on to. Peeta makes a humming sound, like he’s eating something delicious, and the vibration is my undoing. I cry out his name as he sends me over the edge, and my orgasm sends waves of pleasure crashing through me.

 

“Peeta! Yes!” I scream, and he doesn’t slow down until I’ve stopped shuddering. He kisses his way up my body until he reaches my lips and gives me kiss on the mouth. His lips are still covered in my juices, and I can taste myself on him. It’s unexpectedly arousing, even though I just had, without a shadow of a doubt, the most intense orgasm of my life.  

 

When I’ve come down from my high he pulls away and stretches out one of his arms so that I can rest my head on it, our faces close enough for our noses to bump. There’s some street light coming from the window, and it illuminates his face, allowing me to admire his features.

 

As powerful as that orgasm was, it was equally exhausting, and I try to bite back a yawn. I feel guilty for becoming this tired before he’s had his release. I want him to feel what I just felt, so my hands travel down his chest and well-trained abdomen. When I reach his waist, I dip my hand into his pants in search for him, but Peeta puts his hand on mine. I open my eyes, in search of his.

 

“You don’t owe me anything,” he says. _He doesn’t want me to return the favor?_

 

“You don’t want me to…?”

 

“More than you know,” he sighs. “But I don’t want you to feel obligated.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear and gives me a shy smile. “Besides, you seem tired.”

 

This has never happened before, and I don’t know how to handle it. Every guy I’ve ever been with have always wanted something in return, but Peeta seems content with cuddling.

 

“Fine. But I think you’re way too over-dressed.” He is. He’s still wearing pants, and I’m completely naked.

 

He chuckles. “That can be fixed.” He gets up from the bed and pulls off his pants, but keeps his boxers on. The noise from the street floods the room as he opens the window. “Do you mind?” he asks.

 

“No, it’s fine.”

 

“Good.” He crawls back into bed and pulls the covers up so that they’re over my shoulders. I turn over so he can hold me from behind. Our bodies are flush, and I don’t really need the covers to keep me warm. Peeta nestles his face in my neck and gives me a kiss there as he palms one of my breasts. I’m feeling drowsy, and I’m sure sleep will soon take over. Judging by the heaviness of Peeta’s breathing, he feels the same way. But I can’t let him fall asleep without him knowing something. Maybe it’s the alcohol talking, but it doesn’t make it any less true.

 

“Peeta?” I whisper.

 

“Hmm?”

 

“I want to suck your cock.”

 

He exhales into my neck, giving me another kiss, and I can hear the smile in his response. “Well, there’s always tomorrow.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're enjoying this story, please let me know. Here, or on tumblr (maxwellandlovelace). Thank you for reading.


	8. VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shout out to papofglencoe! For your support, your encouragement and betaing!
> 
> Sexual situations and explicit language.

Something is wrong. It’s cold. I pull up the covers, but it doesn’t help. Some noise from outside pulls me from my slumber, but my eyes remain closed. I reach out one of my arms only to find the fabric of the sheets. Reluctantly, I open my eyes and realize that I’m alone. I sit up to look around, and when the covers fall off my body, I remember the state in which I fell asleep last night: naked.

 

I blush a little at the memory of screaming Peeta’s name as he skillfully brought me to completion, using his mouth and fingers. Where is he anyway? I won’t be able to fall back asleep, so I scan the room for my clothes. Right... half of them are still in the living room. Instead, I find a T-shirt of Peeta’s that almost reaches my knees. It’s black and has  _ We are star stuff, contemplating the stars _ written in bold lettering.  _ Deep _ . I don’t bother looking for my underwear; they’re ruined anyway.

 

When I walk down the hallway, there’s an open door that I’ve previously only seen closed. I peek through the opening and spot Peeta sitting in front of an easel. I admire his profile and the muscles of his bare chest and shoulders while he’s deep in thought, painting something I can’t see. A dark pair of glasses I haven’t seen before rests on the bridge of his nose, and the tip of his tongue peeks out through the corner of his mouth. The thought of his tongue and how it made me scream his name in ecstasy last night makes me clench my thighs together. The moment seems private and I don’t want to interrupt him, but I don’t think I can walk away without him noticing.

 

Instead, I gently knock on the open door. His head instantly snaps in my direction, and he meets my gaze.

 

“Hey.” His voice is hoarse and incredibly sexy.

 

“Hey. I don’t want to intrude. I was just wondering where you were.” 

 

He gestures for me to come in. “Sorry, baker’s hours. And you’re not intruding,” he says as he wraps one of his arms around my waist. I drag my finger along the rim of his glasses.

 

“I didn’t know you wore glasses.” 

 

“It’s only when I paint. I started getting headaches, so I went to an optician, and he hooked me up with these babies,” he says, pulling them off and putting them on the table next to him. “I’m getting old.”

 

I let out a chuckle and am about to say something teasing in return, but I fall short when I glance at his painting. It’s obviously not finished, but I can see what it is. It’s a dandelion with white seeds, right before the wind whisks them away.

 

“Peeta, this is beautiful!”

 

“It’s not finished yet,” he says, as if he’s excusing himself.

 

“I don’t care. I love it.” I can’t help but think about the drawing he put on the business card he gave me and wonder if it’s somehow connected, but I’m too much of a wimp to ask him about it.

 

“Thank you,” he says sincerely. Like he’s  _ actually _ valuing my opinion. I tip my head down to capture his lips in a kiss, and when he opens his mouth to let our tongues meet, I put my hand on the side of his face. I’m already getting wet, and one of his hands sneaks up my thigh. When he notices I’m not wearing any underwear he groans into my mouth. I should feel embarrassed at how aroused I am, but I’m not; I  _ want _ Peeta to know how much he turns me on. His fingers find their way through my folds, and if he keeps this up, I won’t be able to stay standing.

 

I swing one of my legs to the other side and saddle his lap, allowing me to feel his hardness pressing to my center. It’s just as, or even more, exhilarating as his fingers. His grip on my waist becomes firmer when I rotate my hips a little to get some friction, and we both sigh.

 

I kiss my way to the side of his face, and when I reach his ear I muster up all the courage I can and whisper, “You and I have unfinished business.” This causes him to twitch in his pants, and his hands wander up my back as he rests his forehead between my breasts. I grab onto his hair and tilt his head up to give him a quick kiss on the mouth.

 

When I stand up, I take his hand in mine and drag him back to the bedroom. He eagerly follows. As soon as we’re both back on the bed he’s above me, gently pressing me onto the mattress. He kisses the side of my face down to my neck, and when I sigh in pleasure he thrusts his hips, hitting that sweet spot. But this isn’t about me. It’s about him.

 

“Peeta,” I croak, placing my hand on his chest. He raises his head, and I take the opportunity to sneak my hand down his abdomen, almost reaching the waistband of his pants. When I realize I won’t reach him, I let out a sigh of annoyance.

 

“You need help with anything, Katniss?” he smirks.

 

“No, I… Just take your pants off.”

 

He doesn’t need to be told twice. As soon as they hit the floor, I push him onto his back and start kissing his neck and collarbone, grinding myself against him. He lets out a moan when I dip my tongue into the crook of his neck, and I revel in being able to give him this pleasure. As I trail kisses down his chest, my hands travel down his muscular arms, and a tingling feeling spreads in my belly. Knowing what I’m about to do, I feel my heart beating harder in my chest, and I can feel the blood pumping in my veins. When I reach his boxers I give him a quick kiss on his already hard cock, and he shudders at my touch.

 

My fingers find the waistband, and I start tugging. He lifts his hips to help me get rid of them, and when they’re finally off, discarded somewhere on the floor, I get my first view of him completely naked. He’s as beautiful as I had imagined. He’s resting on his elbows, breathing heavily, and I blush a little as my eyes linger at his fully erect cock. It’s about average length, but thicker than what I’ve ever seen before; my mouth waters at the sight. I automatically wrap my fingers around him, and he lies back. He’s hard, but his skin is smooth, and I relish the weight of him in my hand. I lower my head to give him kisses on his stomach as I start stroking. On each upstroke I give his head a gentle squeeze.

 

“That feels so good.” His voice is dark and dripping with desire. It gives me the encouragement to bring my mouth to him, and as soon as I release my grip, I slowly drag my tongue from the base all the way up to the tip and give him a kiss there. His breathing becomes more erratic when I take in as much of him as I can, my hand grabbing the base where my mouth can’t reach.

 

“Oh, Katniss,” he whimpers, and the way the ‘s’ rolls off his tongue is so arousing that I have to restrain myself from using my hand to relieve some tension of my own. But this is about Peeta, and I want to give him my full focus. I start bobbing my head up and down as I suck him, and when I reach the tip I swirl my tongue around it. To be able to taste him like this and knowing that he trusts me do this to the most intimate part of his body sends another thrill through me, making me dripping wet for him.

 

Peeta soon starts bucking his hips, and I follow his motions. He buries his hand in my hair, and I seek out the other, lacing our fingers together. This feels like more than just a blowjob. With our hands intertwined as I pleasure him with my mouth, I feel connected to him in a way I never thought possible.

 

When I increase the speed of my ministrations I can tell he’s close by how his groans become more frantic and how he tries to control the thrust of his hips so I don’t gag. His hand leaves my hair and he gives me a tap on the shoulder.

 

“I’m gonna...” he pants. I know what he means, but if he thinks I’m going to stop when it’s obviously this good for the both us, he’s wrong. Instead, I speed up and grip him a little tighter at the base. This seems to be his undoing because not long after I feel his warm seed hitting the back of my throat, and I continue to swirl my tongue around him as he finishes. I try to swallow it all, but it’s so much that some of it drips down the corner of my mouth.

 

I kiss him on his thighs and work my way up, past his stomach and chest, until I reach his face and suck gently on his lower lip.

 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Peeta says as we part.

 

“I know. I wanted to.” It’s the truth. His pleasure is my pleasure.

 

At this, his tongue delves into my mouth, and I eagerly return his kiss. When I pull away he’s wearing a pleased grin.

 

“As much as I love this T-shirt, it’s got to go.” He doesn’t have to persuade me; I want his hands to roam all over me. I pull the T-shirt above my head and fling it across the room. Now we’re both naked, and I immediately lie on top of him so that our bodies are flush. He rapidly flips us over so he’s hovering above me and starts kissing my neck. When his tongue meets my throat, I involuntarily buck my hips, and he can probably feel the heat of my arousal.

 

His body shifts so he’s lying next to me, and his hand starts to knead my breast. When he reaches my nipple he gives it a gentle squeeze, and I let out a contented sigh. He replaces his fingers with his mouth, flicking his tongue up and down, and I grab his hair to have something to hold on to. One of his hands moves down to the apex of my thighs, and he dips his finger into my wet folds and drags it up to my clit. I want to tell him that he doesn’t have to do this, but it feels so good, and I’m too selfish to stop him.

 

He continues to use his mouth to pleasure my nipple as one of his fingers finds its way inside me. He uses his thumb to rub my clit, and I know I won’t last long. I’ve been turned on since I woke up, and his fingers feel amazing.

 

“Yes, don’t stop!” I manage to cry out, and this causes him to speed up his motions. Soon he adds another finger, and I press my hips up to bury his fingers deeper inside me.

 

“That’s it,” he whispers in my ear, his warm breath making me shiver. “Come for me.”

 

I have no choice but to give in to his command, and I come around his fingers. He keeps going until I’m completely limp, and when he retracts his fingers I turn my head to give him a sloppy kiss.

 

When we break apart, the look he gives sends another wave of arousal to the juncture of my thighs.

 

“You’re amazing, you know that?” I don’t know how to respond, but he seems so sincere that I can’t just shrug it off. Instead I put my hand on his cheek, feeling his light stubble.

 

“You too.” A sound from the street breaks the moment, and my eyes flicker to the window.

 

“You want me to close it?”

 

“No, it’s fine. I just don’t understand how you can sleep with that noise.”

 

“It’s… I don’t like the silence.” He turns away and rubs his eyes. “It gets so quiet here. It’s almost like you’re in a coffin.”

 

“Do you get claustrophobic?”

 

“No. I have no problem with small spaces or rooms. It’s just the silence.” He turns back to me with a mischievous grin. “But now I have you here to take care of that.”

 

I respond by hitting him lightly on the head with a pillow. “Hey. It was a compliment,” he tries to argue, unable to keep the smile off his face. I’m about to give him another hit on the head when I spot the clock on the wall. It’s just after ten.

 

“Fuck, I have to take Sanders out.” I usually take him out by eight, nine at the latest.

 

“I already did. We took a walk about an hour ago.”

 

This small gesture of his warms my heart.

 

“You didn’t have to.”

 

“I know. I wanted to,” he repeats my words from earlier.

 

I’m not a fan of grand gestures. It’s the little things like this, like taking the dog out without questioning, that show how compassionate you are. It causes me to do something I’ve never done before.  I usually find it cheesy, but now, it feels right. I capture his lips in a kiss, and when we pull apart I ask him, “Peeta, do you want to be my boyfriend?”

 

His eyes widen in surprise, but he quickly responds, “Yes.”

 

* * *

 

The next couple of weeks feel like we’re in a bubble. When Peeta and I don’t have to work, we always meet up. Despite the way that we devoured each other that first weekend, we still haven’t taken that next step in our relationship yet. I don’t mind; I love the time we spend together, even though I’m finding it harder and harder to control myself around him. The way his fingers and mouth can bring so much pleasure, I can only imagine what it’s like to have him inside me.

 

I’m in the middle of writing when there’s a soft knock on the door. That beautiful face of his always lights up my day.

 

“Hey, you. Are you hungry?” Peeta asks, holding up a basket that I’m quite sure contains cheese buns.

 

“I’m starving. Let me just finish this up.”

 

“Okay.” He finds a seat by the door. “That lady at the reception really takes her job seriously. She almost wouldn’t let me in because I didn’t have an appointment,” he tells me.

 

“Ah, you’ve met Ms. Trinket. How did you get past her?”

 

“I bribed her with a cheese bun. Sorry, one less for you,” he winks.

 

“I’ll put you on the list for next time.”

 

“Thanks.” Another knock turns my attention back to the the door. It’s one of the undergrad students in the course where I’m a TA. What’s her name again? Something silly like Glitter or… Glimmer? Yeah, that’s it.

 

“I have a question about my lab report.” I remember it. I sent it back to her because she didn’t cite her sources.

 

“Alright.” I close my laptop because I have a feeling that this is going to take some time.

 

“It’s about...” She falls short when she enters and spots Peeta sitting by the door. “Oh, I didn’t know you had company.” She flashes him a big smile.

 

“I can leave if you need privacy,” he offers.

 

“No! It’s not a problem. I’m Glimmer by the way.” She offers her hand, and he takes it. I try not to roll my eyes.

 

“Peeta.”

 

“That’s an unusual name.” She drags a finger through her hair, and she’s not subtle about how she undresses him with her eyes, the reason for her visit completely forgotten.

 

“You had a question.” I try to get her focus back on me, not enjoying how she’s flirting with my man.

 

“Yeah, right.” Finally, she turns her attention away from Peeta and back to me. “I don’t find anything wrong with what I’ve written. Is there anything that’s factually incorrect?”

 

“No. But you have to credit the source of your information. Otherwise I don’t know where it comes from and can’t judge the reliability of your report.”

 

“But I don’t know where all information comes from.”

 

“Then you have to find out. You have until the end of next week to send me a revised version.” I’m getting tired of having this discussion. This information is in the fucking lab instruction.

 

“Fine.” She turns around, but before she leaves she sends Peeta a look. “It was nice meeting you, Peeta.” She emphasizes his name, her eyes raking all over him.

 

“You too,” he responds casually. After she leaves he turns to me. “Man, that was brutal.”

 

“Yeah, well, her report was awful, and I didn’t like her trying to seduce you right in front of me.”

 

“What? She didn’t, she was just being nice.”

 

“Oh, please. She was totally checking you out. ‘That’s an unusual name.’” I try to mimic her high-pitched voice and body language.

 

“Hey, I get that a lot. Blame my parents. Besides, I’m officially off the market.” I get up from my chair and stand in front of him, between his legs. He tilts his head up so I can give him a kiss on the mouth.

 

“You sure are,” I say, pulling away from his lips. “Let’s go.”

 

The weather is still warm enough to sit outside, and Peeta brought a blanket. We manage to find a relatively secluded spot next to a tree, and, as always, I go for the cheese buns first.

 

“You’re so predictable,” Peeta chuckles, shaking his head.

 

“Yeah, you know I only like you for your buns,” I say with my mouth full.

 

“Right.” He pauses. “There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.” His voice is low, and I can tell he’s nervous, fidgeting on the side of the blanket. “My birthday’s coming up, and I usually spend it with my family. I was wondering if you’d like to come?” he asks tentatively. “It’s nothing big, just my parents and brothers. And maybe Johanna.”

 

It’s intimidating meeting his parents. What if they don’t like me? Especially his father, who Peeta seems to look up to so much. But if he’s anything like Aaron and Rye, maybe it will be okay. Besides, Peeta will be there. “When is it?”

 

“October 4th.”

 

“I think I can squeeze that in,” I wink, trying to hide my nervousness.

 

“Thank you,” he breathes, putting his hands on both sides of my face and bringing my mouth to his. He can probably taste the cheese, but I don’t care. The fact that he wants me to meet the rest of his family gives me the confidence to ask him something that I’ve wanting to do for a while, but haven’t found the courage to.

 

“There’s something I want to ask you too,” I tell him as our lips part. “I’m going away for a conference in late October. I’ll be gone for almost a week.”

 

“I’ll miss you,” he says before I can finish my thought.

 

“Maybe you don’t have to.” 

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I can bring someone if I want. I’ll be away during the days, but I’ll have the evenings and weekend off.” I hope he understands what I’m implying.

 

“You’re asking me to come with you?” he asks carefully.

 

“It’s fine if you don’t want to. You probably have other plans anyway. I just thought...”

 

“Of course I want to come with you!” he interrupts my rambling. Relief washes over me. I had been afraid it was too soon in our relationship for us to take trips together, but I should have known that Peeta would take away all my nerves. “Where is it?”

 

“In D.C. It’s only an hour flight and...” I’m about to tell him about all the things we can do while we’re there, but when I look up at him, a knot ties in my stomach. He looks heartbroken.

 

“I’m sorry. I can’t go,” he murmurs, his eyes locked on the ground.

 

“Why? You just said...”

 

“I know what I said,” he snaps. His eyes meet mine, his expression softening a little. “I just can’t go,” he continues quietly.

 

“You’re gonna have to give me a little more than that.”  _ What caused this sudden change in his demeanor? _

 

“It’s… I just…” He takes a long breath, like he’s trying to calm himself. “I can’t go  _ there _ .”

 

“Why? Is there a warrant out for your arrest or something?” I’m losing my patience and my grip on this situation.

 

“No. Look, it has nothing to do with you.” His words usually has a positive effect on me, but right now, he’s kind of pissing me off. Instead of trying to prevent this from escalating, I raise my voice.

 

“Really? Then why can’t you tell me?” Before I know it, more words tumble out. “Maybe you don’t even like me. You sure as hell won’t fuck me!” I know that has nothing to do with this, but I can’t help myself. When I see the hurt that my words caused written all over his face, I instantly regret them, but I’m still upset. 

 

“What?! Is that what you want, Katniss? For me to treat you like you’re a one-night stand? I waited out of respect for  _ you _ . So that you would know that you’re more than just a fuck!” His frustration is evident; his cheeks are flushed, and his voice is desperate.

 

His revelation  _ is _ a relief, but my anger has taken over completely, and all the pent up insecurities get the better of me. I can’t stop the words escaping my mouth, “Like Delly.”

 

“What? What does  _ she _ have to do with anything?” He seems puzzled.

 

“Oh, don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about, Peeta! She practically told me. I don’t care how many girls you’ve slept with, I really don’t. But you could have had the decency to tell me that you work with one of them.”

 

“What in the fucking hell are you talking about? I’ve never slept with Delly.”

 

I don’t know if he’s telling the truth or not, but the tears threatening to spill over the rim of his eyes tell me that this situation has gotten completely out of hand. We both pause.

 

“I don’t want to fight with you, Katniss,” he says after a couple of seconds. “And if it’s an issue, I can honestly tell you that my relationship with Delly is not, nor has it  _ ever _ been, romantic, sexual, or whatever you want to call it.” He sounds defeated.

 

“Then why did she tell me that?” 

 

“I don’t know,” he sighs. “I’ll have a talk with her. But is that really the issue here, you’re jealous?”

 

“I don’t know. Is it?” I question, raising my eyebrows. Even if I’m wrong about him and Delly, he still hasn’t told me why he won’t come with me to the conference. “I  _ want _ to give you your privacy, Peeta. But when you don’t tell me certain things, it’s hard to know if it’s because of me or something else. It’s confusing.”

 

He nods in understanding. “I know, and I’m sorry. I  _ want _ to tell you; it’s not that I don’t trust you, because I do. It’s just so fucking hard to talk about… something so painful.” He drags his hand through his hair, and I have to restrain myself from fixing his curls. “It’s so fucked up, Katniss.” he sighs, putting his elbow on his knee.

 

“I don’t want to force you, but...”

 

“You’re not. You deserve to know.” He leans back so he’s resting on the tree we’re sitting under. “I will tell you everything as soon as I can. I promise.”

 

I understand where he’s coming from. I haven’t told him everything about my family, or why I haven’t offered him to meet my mom, either. But I think we both need to cross that bridge soon. I plant a kiss on his lips. “Soon,” I say as I look into his eyes.

 

“Soon,” he nods. I let my head rest on his lap, and he drags his fingers through my hair. It’s extremely soothing, and I’m relieved that we made up, but I can’t shake the feeling that the bubble of  joy we’d been living in just burst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! As always, please let me know what you think. I love hearing from all of you! I'm maxwellandlovelace on tumblr.


	9. IX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my wonderful friend and beta, papofglencoe! Thank you!! <3
> 
>  
> 
> Remember the rating for this story. Smut ahead! ;)

I never thought I’d grow tired of looking at the background picture on my phone. It’s of Peeta sleeping, with Sanders crammed between him and the back of the couch, putting half of his weight on Peeta. I found them that way once when I got back from work. Apparently, he was taking a nap when Sanders jumped up to lie beside him, and Peeta didn’t have the heart to move him and eventually they both fell asleep like that. Neither of them heard me when I got back, and I couldn’t resist the urge to eternalize the moment.

 

Right now, however, I want nothing more than for that picture to be replaced by an incoming call, or text, or whatever, from Peeta. Since our fight a couple of days ago we’ve seen each other, but he’s been absent somehow, his mind wandering to other places, not his usual easygoing, confident self. No more texts with just a heart or some sweet words. No more surprise hugs from behind, where one of his hands starts caressing my breasts before dipping beneath my panties, causing all my muscles to go limp as he keeps me standing with one of his strong arms while finishing me off with his fingers.

 

I can probably count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen him smile, and neither of those reached his eyes. The frustration of being completely helpless and unable to support him in whatever is troubling him is eating at me. There’s a fine line between being supportive and nagging, and I don’t know which side I’m on. Maybe we both need to clear our minds, doing something that requires absolutely no thinking on either part. I’ve been mulling it over the entire afternoon, and I haven’t gotten any work done. Might as well call it a day. Before I leave, I poke my head through Finnick’s door.

 

“What do guys like to do to blow off some steam?”

 

His head snaps in my direction, surprised to see me there, but he doesn’t miss a beat.

 

“What do you think?” he says, like it’s obvious.

 

“Besides that,” I say, rolling my eyes. I’ve gotten so used to his recurring sexual innuendos that I should have seen that one coming.

 

He throws up his hands in the air and sighs. “I don’t know... get drunk?”

 

“Really?”

 

“If you want to get your mind off something, getting drunk is the best way to do it. Or you could reconsider the first option.”

 

I want to tell him I’ve already tried that, but keep my mouth shut. “Okay, alcohol it is.”

 

I’m about to leave when Finnick calls after me. “Hey, Katniss.” I stop at the doorframe and look back at him as he rolls his chair over to me. “Is everything alright? With you and Peeta, I mean.” I know his concern is genuine. He’s quite a tease, but I know he always has my back.

 

We’ve always been very honest with each other, and I’ve shared a lot of my insecurities with him. But this has more to do with Peeta than with me, and I don’t want to break his trust. “Yeah, I just want to do something different.” I hope he’s satisfied with my answer.

 

“Okay. But you know I’m here for you. And if you want me to, I’ll kick his ass.”

 

“I know you would.” I don’t think he would be successful, though.

 

* * *

 

Apart from his small studio at home, Peeta has another one where he does most of his work. It’s not that far from the gallery where he had his art show a couple of weeks ago. It’s like a small apartment on the second floor with large windows and a small office. I’ve been there a few times, and so far, I’ve managed to avoid Delly on all of those occasions. No such luck this time.

 

The studio itself is empty, but there are voices coming from the office; I recognize them both.

 

“What? I never told her that!” Delly’s high-pitched tone cuts through the room, and I stop dead in my tracks.

 

“Then where would she get that idea from? She said you told her.” Peeta’s voice is lower but strained. I don’t know if I should announce my arrival, but I don’t want to interrupt either. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I stay outside the door where I can hear their voices clearly.

 

“Well, I didn’t.” _But you certainly insinuated it._

 

Peeta sighs. “Could you have said anything that might have been interpreted that way?” I know he hates fighting, and he’s trying to figure this out, hoping that everything is a big misunderstanding so that no one gets hurt. I have a hard time believing Delly is so dense that she didn’t understand how her comment would be interpreted. Either way, someone is getting hurt. I just hope it’s not me.

 

I don’t hear anything for a couple of seconds, and I’m starting to think that maybe they left through a door I didn’t know existed. Then Delly breaks the silence.

 

“Oh, Peeta, I’m so sorry!” Her voice is muffled, but I can hear she’s on the verge of crying.

 

“Why? What for?”

 

No one says anything, but I can hear Delly’s sobs. “I may have alluded to something like that.” There’s another long silence. “Please, say something,” Delly pleads.

 

“Why?” I can barely hear him because it comes out almost as a whisper.

 

“It’s just… We’ve known each other for so long, Peeta,” she cries. “I guess I thought that eventually you’d...” she trails off.

 

“Eventually I’d what?” he snaps, anger apparent in his tone.

 

“You would feel the same way I do,” she says carefully, her voice trembling. “Please, Peeta. Don’t you see? We know everything about each other and...”

 

“No, we don’t,” he cuts her off. “I can’t believe this. You were supposed to be my friend,” he raises his voice.

 

“I _am_ your friend. Please, I’m so sorry. Peeta, you have to forgive me. You can’t give up our friendship over something silly like this,” Delly desperately begs.

 

“I don’t _have_ to do anything, and it’s not silly. And you owe Katniss an apology too.”

 

“But...”

 

“Can you please just leave?” I don’t hear anger anymore, only sadness.

 

All of a sudden the door swings open, causing me to stumble backward a little, and I’m met with Delly’s blue eyes, raw from crying. She gasps when she spots me but doesn’t say anything. She looks away and runs to the door, closing it behind her with a bang.

 

“How much did you hear?” Peeta’s voice startles me. I’m afraid he’ll be upset to find out I was here, but it doesn’t seem like it. He’s sitting in his chair with his head buried in his hands, and I carefully approach the office door, slowly walking inside.

 

“Enough.” I pause. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I was just coming over to see you, and I swear I didn’t know she was here.”

 

“It’s fine. You would have heard it later anyway. I’m sorry about what she said to you,” he sighs, looking miserable. I rapidly move around the desk to sit in his lap and cradle his head in my hands. “I can’t wrap my head around it. Why would she do something like that?”

 

He had no idea. From the way she acted around Peeta it was obvious to me she had more than friendly intentions toward him. But it was completely lost on him; he didn’t see it.

 

Now it all makes sense to me. The way he’d been acting: it had nothing to do with me or us. He had been dreading this conversation with her. While I was wallowing around feeling sorry for myself, I never once considered how Peeta was affected by all of this. I’m so fucking selfish. She’s one of his best friends, and he was hurt by her actions. And here I’d been acting like I was the only one who had been wronged.

 

“I don’t know,” I croak. I clear my throat, not wanting to make this about me. We sit like that for a couple of minutes, his head pressed against my chest and his hands firmly on my back.

 

“I’m sorry I’ve been kind of distant lately,” Peeta murmurs, finally breaking the silence. “I’ve been thinking.” He takes a breath. “I don’t know if the offer’s still on the table, considering how I acted. But if you still want to, I would like to come to the conference with you,” he says as he lifts his head to look at me. Maybe it’s not appropriate, but I can’t stop the grin that spreads across my face. I just nod and plant a kiss on his mouth. “Is that a ‘yes’?”

 

“Yes, of course.” I’m relieved when he smiles back at me.

 

“So what brings you here?” he asks, leaning back in the chair.

 

I stand up and sit on the desk while he strokes the outside of my thighs.

 

“I thought that you and I could forget about all the shit that’s been going on and just let loose. I dropped Sanders off at Haymitch’s so we can go out.”

 

“You want to go out?” He seems unconvinced.

 

“Yeah. I definitely prefer staying in with you, but it’s nice to go out sometimes, too.”

 

“Alright, you’ve got it.” I’m grateful he can put the Delly situation behind him, at least for tonight. “A fair warning, though. I get a little handsy when I’m drunk,” he winks.

 

“I know.” _I’m counting on it._ “As long as they’re on me, you can get completely wasted.”

 

* * *

 

We’ve been at the bar for almost two hours, and I think I’m on my third glass of wine, and I don’t know how many beers Peeta’s had. He’s been holding my hand almost the entire time, rubbing circles on the back of it. We’ve been talking about everything and nothing, and we’re both a little buzzed.

 

It’s not lost on me how most of the women here throw Peeta appreciative glances, their eyes lingering on him a little longer than they should. The looks they give me are the polar opposite, but Peeta seems completely unaware of the effect he has on people.

 

“All I’m saying is, there’s gotta be a reason he follows you around all the time.” The subject of conversation at the moment is Sanders.

 

“What? You don’t think it’s because of my charming personality?” Peeta winks.

 

“Maybe it’s your fine ass,” I joke, taking another sip of my wine and locking my eyes on his. We’re only messing around, but it’s the truth, and I can see that he appreciates my compliment.

 

“I’m glad to hear your eyesight is in order, but I don’t think Sanders cares about that.”

 

“I don’t think he cares about your charming personality, either. It’s the food you slip him every time you two are alone in the kitchen,” I try to scold him, but I really don’t mind. I’m glad that Peeta has taken a liking to Sanders; I think Sanders probably likes him more. I don’t mind. Peeta _does_ have a charming personality.

 

He holds up his hands. “I can’t help if I drop something on the floor while I cook.”

 

“Drop,” I say with air quotes. “Don’t think I’m not onto you, Mellark. You’re bribing my dog.”

 

Peeta takes another swig of his beer. “And what are you gonna do about it, Detective Everdeen?” he winks, but I can hear the desire in his voice. Maybe it has something to do with how my foot has been stroking his leg almost the entire time, going higher with every sip of wine that passes my lips. But I’m not going to give into it. At least not yet.

 

“I’m gonna drink you under the table.”

 

He grabs my foot when it’s only inches from his crotch. “You could try. I’ll have you know that I’m the reigning shot race champion in the Mellark household,” he says proudly, grabbing my shoe from the floor and sliding it on.

 

“You’re trying to intimidate me?” I smirk. I’m feeling the effects of the alcohol, but I’m having such a great time that I’m not going to stop now.

 

“Is it working?”

 

I let out a chuckle. When I get up, I slide my finger up one of his arms and pull it away when I reach his shoulder. “Maybe. I’ll be right back.” I spin around and wiggle my ass in front of him, making him groan. Good. Now I know I have his full attention as I walk to the bar.

 

As I walk back to our booth, drinks on a tray in my hands, I get a little dizzy. I’m not drunk, but if I had been completely sober, I probably would have seen the guy right in front of me. But I’m so busy trying not to spill the drinks that I smack right into his side, and all the work I did balancing the tray is lost when all but one of the glasses falls to the floor. The music’s too loud for anyone to hear the glass crashing, but the guy I walked into turns around. He’s the type of guy that girls would call tall, dark and handsome. I don’t see it. He’s tall. He’s dark. But he’s not handsome, not like Peeta.

 

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t looking. I hope I didn’t get anything on your shirt,” I say as I try to find any stains, but it’s too dark to see anything.

 

“No, it’s fine,” he answers, flashing me a smile. Good, I was afraid he was going to be rude about it, but I guess the odds are in my favor this time. “I think it was my fault, standing in your way.” He sounds oddly sober for being at a bar.

 

“I really don’t think so. Sorry again,” I say as I hold up the only shot glass that survived and walk back to Peeta. But when I’m about to turn around I bang my foot into the threshold of the dance floor, causing me to stumble and nearly fall forward, but the same guy catches me in his arms before I do. _Shit, maybe I’m more drunk than I thought._

 

“If you wanted my attention, you didn’t have to go through such extreme measures.” He sounds cocky, and I want his hands off of me; he doesn’t have Peeta’s warm touch at all. I stand up and release myself from his grip.

 

“What?”

 

“I mean, a simple ‘hello’ would have done it. You didn’t have to fall into my arms.” Is this guy for real? He acts like girls fall all over him on a regular basis. He’s not even that good-looking.

 

Before I get a chance to respond, I feel another hand on my shoulder, but it’s one I’m used to, and I’m grateful Peeta’s here.

 

“Are you alright?”

 

“Yeah, I’m okay.” I lean into his touch.

 

“Hey, man. We’re in the middle of a conversation here,” tall-dark-and-handsome chips in.

 

“Yeah, and by the looks of it you’re after a little more than that.” I turn around and see Peeta shooting daggers at the other guy. The look in his eyes is fierce, and I can’t help but find it extremely sexy.

 

“Yeah, so? Why don’t you run along and find you own lay for the night?” he says condescendingly, making a running motion with two of his fingers. Peeta’s hand tenses on my shoulder, and when I look up to him I see that beautiful jaw of his clenching as he looks this dude straight in the eyes. He’s really pissing Peeta off, and I have to do something to defuse the situation before it gets out of hand.

 

Peeta points a warning finger at him. “You better watch it.” His voice is stern, almost angry.

 

I step in between the men, glaring at this obnoxious guy. “Actually, this is my boyfriend, and if you’ll excuse us, we’re going to go home and fuck.” I take Peeta’s hand and drag him with me toward the exit.

 

We’re just outside the bar when he pulls me around a corner, away from the crowd. I don’t have time to be confused about it because his lips are on mine before I have the chance to think. It’s not one of his sweet good night kisses. It’s rough and greedy, and his tongue dances around mine as he pins both my hands above my head. His actions send a jolt right to my clit, and I can already feel my panties getting wet.

 

When he releases my lips, he starts kissing my neck and throat. “That was. The sexiest thing. I’ve ever seen,” he pants between kisses. I want to drag my fingers through his hair, but he keeps my hands firmly above my head. If I really wanted to move them I could, but I kind of like the feeling of Peeta completely controlling the situation. Controlling me. His mouth makes its way back to the side of my face, and he starts licking and gently sucking my earlobe.

 

“Oh!” I cry out. But when he thrusts his hips against mine and I feel his hard cock against my pussy, the only thing that leaves my lips is his name. “Peeta.” He pushes me even further against the brick wall, and if I wasn’t so turned on it probably would have hurt. But at this point it only makes me wetter for him. The only thing I can - or want to - focus on is Peeta, so I hoist my leg up on his hip, and he instinctively grabs it and starts stroking my thigh. “I want...” I gasp. He stops what he’s doing and looks at me, those sapphire eyes gazing into mine. “I need...” I’m too far gone to form any coherent sentences so I show him instead. I buck my hips to feel him again.

 

“Me too.” His voice is rough but sincere, and I do an internal victory dance. Is this really happening? _Are we really doing this?_ Peeta releases me from his grip and brings his hands to my face, holding it and rubbing his thumbs along my cheeks. When I feel his lips again they’re soft and tender. I like these different sides of Peeta, both the man who knows what he wants and isn’t afraid to take it, and the kind and caring man who wouldn’t hurt a fly. I melt into his kiss.

 

“Let’s get out of here,” he suggests when we break apart. He doesn’t have to tell me twice.

 

The cab ride home is a little awkward. Peeta holds my hand, and we both want to give in to our desires, but we’re still sober enough to act civilized in a car with another person. That’s not to say I don’t catch his eyes lingering on my cleavage while he licks his lips. But I’m no better; it would be a complete lie to say that I didn’t spend the majority of the ride stealing glances at his crotch and his obvious erection.

 

When we finally arrive at my house I hurry to the door while Peeta pays the driver. I search around my bag for the keys, and just when I find them I feel Peeta’s arms envelop me from behind, his warm breath on my neck.

 

“You’re trying to get away from me?” he whispers between kisses.

 

“No. I just want to get you inside as soon as possible.” I thought I already was as turned on as I could get, but when Peeta moves his hand to my breast and gives it a gentle squeeze, my hunger for him only intensifies, and I roll my hips against his.

 

“Don’t let me stop you.” It’s difficult to concentrate on opening the door, and I fumble with the keys when Peeta’s hands sneak under my sweater, distracting me even more. It’s extremely hard to concentrate on anything but his hands and lips, but somehow I manage to get the door open.

 

As soon as it closes behind us I’m pressed against it, exactly like I was against the wall outside the bar. But now we have the luxury of privacy, and as Peeta kisses me, he lets his hand wander up to my breast again, and I grind my hips against his to relieve some of the tension that’s been building all night.

 

My hands go to his hair, and I start tugging at it. When I feel his erection through his pants he lets go of my breast and brings my arms over my head, just like before. He keeps them in place with one of his hands and strokes me through my pants with the other. He can probably feel the heat coming from my center as he moves his hand back and forth. Even through my clothes it feels so good, and if I didn’t already know what his tongue feels like, I’d say this is the best feeling in the world.

 

“I’m so wet for you,” I pant in his ear. At this, he moves his hand and slams his hips against mine, his cock hitting exactly where I want it. Where I need it.

 

“Do you have any fucking idea what that does to me?” he growls, and when he pushes forward again I throw both of my legs around his waist and lock them in an attempt to bring him closer. His hands travel to my back, and he supports me as he carries me to the bedroom. As soon as we’re both on the bed, he climbs over me and starts peppering my face and neck with kisses like he can’t get enough.

 

The clothes I’m wearing are suddenly way too fucking uncomfortable, and Peeta must feel the same way because he starts tugging at my sweater. I push him back just enough to to pull it over my head and throw it across the room. Peeta does the same with his shirt, and I take the opportunity to put my hands on his chest and trace his muscles with my hands.

 

“Lie back,” I tell him, and he readily complies. I straddle his hips, grinding down on him. As I take off my bra, his hands instinctively make their way to my breasts, kneading and squeezing them just the way I like. His thumbs stroke my nipples, and I shudder as they harden at his touch. In response, he snaps his hips, causing me to moan loudly in pleasure. What he’s doing to me is making my heart beat through the roof.

 

“Alright, that’s enough,” Peeta says huskily, and before I know it, he flips us over so that he’s above me. Even though we’re both intoxicated, on each other and alcohol, he’s still clear-headed enough to support his weight on his elbows, making sure not to crush me. His tongue travels from my throat and down to my breasts, where he takes his time, swirling it around my nipples. “You’re so sexy,” he whispers against my skin, and the warm, fuzzy feeling only Peeta can give me spreads through my body.

 

When he reaches my pants, he easily tugs them down together with my panties in one motion. I use my legs to throw them off completely, and normally I would feel exposed lying completely naked like this. But the way Peeta looks at me, the hunger he has in his eyes for me, puts my mind at ease. His hand goes to my folds, and when I feel his fingers, my eyes flutter shut at the sensation.

 

“No.” Peeta’s voice brings me back to this world. I raise my head and rise up onto my elbows. “I want you to watch.” I don’t understand what he means, and I guess my confusion is written on my face. He leans forward and gives me a sweet, chaste kiss on the lips. Then he brings his mouth to my ear. “I’m gonna make you come, and you’re gonna watch me do it.” His words send a wave of desire right through me, settling in my lower belly, and I let out a groan.

 

“Do it,” I urge him. He swiftly descends on my body, leaving kisses in a trail of fire down to my stomach. He stops his ministrations and looks up at me with pure desire. He changes his position a little so I’m on full display for him. He doesn’t waste any time, dipping his head down and dragging his tongue through my wet folds. “Oh my god!” I wail as my head falls backward; all my muscles seem to have stopped working.

 

“Hey, eyes on me.”

 

“I can’t,” I breathe.

 

“Yes, you can,” Peeta says, bringing one of his hands to my breast, rolling my nipple between his thumb and forefinger. I manage to look back down at him, and he licks me teasingly on my clit. “You taste so good, Katniss.”

 

“Please, Peeta. Don’t stop.” He doesn’t. He keeps licking and sucking, occasionally lifting his eyes, to make sure I’m still looking at him. It takes everything in me to not fall backward, but it feels so good that I don’t dare go against his will. I’ve never understood why someone would want to lick anyone’s pussy; it can’t taste that great, but seeing Peeta getting so turned on by this is nothing short of exhilarating. His tongue swirls around my clit, eliciting one moan after the other from me.

 

I start bucking my hips, and Peeta drags his finger through my folds, but he doesn’t push it in. He just keeps teasing my entrance, slowly dragging it up and down, and speeds up his movements with his tongue.

 

“Peeta...” He’s the only thing on my mind right now, and I’m so close. I want to feel more of him. Need to feel more of him. All of him. Instead of using his finger he starts sucking on my clit, and that’s it for me. I start shaking as the waves of my orgams come crashing and my body finally gives in, falling backward on the bed as he keeps going until I’ve stopped shuddering.

 

The orgasms he gives me usually leave me completely sated, but tonight I want more. As soon as he’s back at my side I swing one of my legs over him, pushing my tongue into his mouth. He seems surprised at my initiative but follows my lead and lets me sit on his stomach. I inch backward until I can unbuckle his belt.

 

“I want you inside me.” I say, and I mean it. I’ve waited long enough.

 

“Do you have…?” Before he can finish his question I reach over him to the drawer and pull out a condom. As I lean over, he takes advantage of the fact that my breasts are right in front of his face by capturing one of them in his mouth, flicking his tongue across my nipple, causing me to groan. “You’re fucking amazing,” he breathes.

 

He reaches for the condom in my hand, but I pull it away from him.

 

“I want to do it.” His eyes widen, but he doesn’t say anything. I move backward to shuck off his pants, and when I finally do and get a look at his cock, I briefly worry that it’s going to hurt me. He’s so thick, and it’s been such a long time for me. I didn’t think it registered on my face, but apparently it does. Peeta sits up and cups my cheek.

 

“We won’t do anything you don’t want to.” His voice is low and sincere.

 

“I know. It’s just… It’s been a while, is all.”

 

He brings his other hand to my face gives me a slow, sweet kiss. “Me too.” He seems a little nervous too, but it makes me feel safe, knowing that I’m not the only one. I pull away and start tearing the foil to put the condom on him. I take my time, rolling it slowly over his cock, teasing him a little bit by giving him a few extra strokes.

 

“If you keep doing that I’m not gonna last long,” he says hoarsely.

 

“I don’t care.” I don’t. It’s his turn now. When he’s fully sheathed, I lift up on my knees and grab him at the base. Lowering my hips a little bit, I drag his erection through my folds, coating him with my arousal.

 

“Oh my god,” he gasps, throwing his arms on the bed, his hands balled into tight fists. I bring him to my entrance and slowly lower myself down onto him. We moan in unison as his cock finds its way inside me. He fills me up completely, but it doesn’t hurt. I have to let my body adjust to his size before I start moving, and sitting still here, like this, with Peeta fully inside me and his wonderful blue eyes boring into mine, I feel a sense of calm. I’ve felt connected to him before, but this is an entirely new kind.

 

I raise my hips a little, letting him slide out a bit before I slam back down on him again. I do this a couple of times, and his grunts and moans let me know that I’m doing something right. I bring my hands to his chest and lean on him, letting him push himself into me as I raise my hips. His hands move from my outer thighs up to grab my waist, holding me in place. Then one of them skates down to my ass, grabbing it. At this, my hips start moving at their own accord, eagerly meeting his.

 

“You feel so good,” he growls.

 

“You too,” I manage to respond.

 

I didn’t think I would be able to come again, but when Peeta sneaks his hands between us to rub my clit, the pressure inside me starts to build again. Looking down at him from my position, seeing him beneath me, sends me over the edge. He’s looking at me with such passion and desire, and the feeling of coming with him inside me is something new. I can feel myself clenching around him, causing him to moan my name. I start to tremble, and when I can’t keep moving my hips, he takes over, frantically driving into me. When I regain my senses I still feel him hard inside me and he flips us over so that he’s hovering above me.

 

“Is this okay?” he whispers, and I’m amazed by how calm he is, considering his state of arousal.

 

I raise my head and put my mouth by his ear. “Yes, fuck me, Peeta.” That’s all the invitation he needs, and he slams himself into me. I lock my legs around him to encourage him to go faster. Deeper. I can feel he’s getting close because his thrusts become more uncontrolled and savage. I’m still sensitive from my orgasm, but this feels so good. So fucking good. “I love how you feel inside me. So good. So big. So hard,” I manage to let out between his thrusts.

 

He drives into me once more and, at that, starts to shake, his movements becoming wild and untamed. He drops his head in the crook of my neck as he spills into the condom, moaning in pleasure. We lie like that for a couple of seconds, riding out the high of our orgasms, before he rolls to the side and slides out of me.

 

“Wow,” he pants, catching his breath and wiping the beads of perspiration from his forehead.

 

I roll over so I can look him in the eyes.

 

“Yeah, wow,” I agree, and I can’t hold back a smile.

 

“Really?” he doesn’t sound convinced. Like he didn’t hear how I shouted his name when he made me come. Twice.

 

“Yes, really. Best sex of my life.” This earns me a smile, and I think he believes me.

 

He gets up to dispose of the condom, and as he walks to the bathroom I yell after him, “I was right about that fine ass!” He doesn’t acknowledge my comment, but I’m pretty sure he’s smiling. It doesn’t take long for him to come back, and when he does, he wraps his arms around me, hugging me from behind. Lying like this, without the restriction of clothes, is the safest I’ve felt in a long time. I don’t even fear the nightmares because now I know I have Peeta here to take care of me.

 

He places kisses along my neck, anywhere he can reach without changing our position, and I fall asleep to his kisses and soft touches.

 

* * *

 

When I’m stirred awake I wonder if ever fell asleep because we’re lying exactly the same, with Peeta holding me from behind, trailing kisses on my shoulders.

 

“I didn’t mean to wake you, but I couldn’t help myself,” he tells me, his voice raspy from sleep. The light from outside illuminates the room a little, but not much.

 

“What time is it?”

 

“I don’t know. Dawn?” He doesn’t seem to care, and I don’t either. All I can concentrate on right now is his lips on me, and even if I’m tired, I’m not too tired for this. Apparently neither is Peeta. I can feel his erection pressing against my ass, and I instinctively bring my hand behind me in search of him. When I find what I’m looking for I start stroking him, and he moans against my skin. “That feels so good,” he whispers, thrusting gently into my hand. Peeta drops his hand a bit, dragging his fingers through my already wet folds.

 

As good as this feels, I want more. “Hold on,” I tell him, reaching across the bed to find a condom in the drawer, practically throwing it at him. “You’ll have to do it yourself this time.”

 

“That’s fine,” he chuckles, and I lie down in the same position as before, with my back to him. I hear the tearing of the wrapper and not long after, his lips are back on my shoulders, neck, and arms. He pokes my head with one of his hands, urging me to lift it so that I can use his arm as a pillow. I roll my ass against his groin, revelling in the feel of his hard cock against me. He resumes his ministrations and starts rubbing me again, and I’m glad we don’t have to bother with taking our clothes off this time.

 

“Peeta, please. I need you.” He retracts his hand, and I angle my hips to make it easier for him to enter me. I’m so wet that he easily slips inside me, and we both groan in pleasure. He moves the arm I was lying on to allow him to play with my breast, and the other starts rubbing my clit in small circular motions. At this angle he doesn’t hit as deep, but he more than makes up for it with the magic his hands can do. “Oh god, it feels so good,” I pant.

 

He pulls back his hips and then enters me again, slowly. This isn’t desperate or hard like last night’s fucking session, but sensual and caring. _Is this what making love means?_ For me, having sex have always just been that: sex. It’s been about pleasure, and pleasure only. But this feels deeper, like we’re connecting on an emotional level too. He slowly slides in and out of me as his fingers coax me.

 

The thrill of having him inside me gradually builds up, and I’m on the verge of coming when I feel him start to shake behind me, but he keeps rubbing me, and the sounds he makes as he comes pushes me over the edge too, and we both cry out in the longest orgasm I’ve ever had.

 

When Peeta comes back after disposing the condom, I turn to him and pull up the covers over our heads, like it’s shielding us from the rest of the world. But it’s thin enough to let through some light, allowing me to see his face. I put my hand on his cheek.

 

“I’m really glad I met you,” I whisper. It’s the only thing I can think of to express my feelings to him. I’m not good with words. Do I love him? I don’t know. I don’t even know what love feels like. I’ve never felt romantic love before. Maybe Peeta’s the one who will show me.

 

He closes his eyes and gives me a shy smile. “I’m really glad I met you too.” He takes a breath, as if mentally preparing himself for something bad to happen. “Before we go to D.C., I’m going to tell you everything.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that was long overdue;) Please let me know what you think. I'm maxwellandlovelace on tumblr. Thank you for reading!


	10. X

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's left comments! I read them all and I'm so grateful. And papofglencoe, thank you so much for betaing this story. Thanks to you, it's better.
> 
> Trigger warning: Some mention of death.

The smell of something delicious invades my nostrils, pulling me from my morning slumber. I can tell it’s late because the sun is lighting up the entire room, and I have to squint my eyes. Peeta’s not in bed with me, but based on the smell, I can tell he’s in the kitchen. I have no idea what he’s making because I know that my kitchen is not well-stocked. He sometimes buys me groceries, not because I can’t afford them myself, but because he thinks there’s something sad about opening an empty fridge. I’ve told him he doesn’t have to. I don’t want to owe him, but he says it’s for  _ his _ sake and that he can’t cook for me if he doesn’t have anything to work with.  _ Two compelling arguments. _ I love his food, both watching him make it and eating it, and I’ve managed to convince him that I should at least pay for half of it, to which he reluctantly agreed.

 

I throw off the covers, but when I move to stand I feel a soreness between my legs. It’s a good kind of soreness, though, a reminder of how we spent last night together, not letting anything hold us back.

 

Peeta’s shirt lies discarded on the floor, and I pick it up and pull it over me. I have a closet full of my own clothes, but I prefer his. Even if he hasn’t worn it since we got back from the bar, it still smells like him. I love it. Not only because of the scent, but because it probably means he’s not wearing much right now, pants at the most.

 

I’m right. When I get to the kitchen I rest my weight on the doorframe and admire how the muscles on his back flex when he moves. My eyes continue their journey downward, letting them linger on that sexy ass. I’ve never pegged myself as someone who would appreciates a man’s rear this much, but Peeta has certainly turned me around. Watching him do something so mundane is enough to make my nipples poke through the thin fabric of the shirt. But as much as I want to feel him inside me again, I think I’m too sore.

 

He hasn’t seen me yet because he’s still standing with his back to me and he probably didn’t hear me over the sizzling from the pan. He’s humming something I don’t recognize, and it’s completely out of tune.

 

“Well, don’t I have the best view in town?” Peeta whips his head around and locks his eyes on me. I don’t miss how he not-so-subtly glances at my chest and then back to my face.

 

“I could say the same thing.” I try not to blush at his compliment, but a heat still spreads across my face. He showered me with compliments last night, but that was in the midst of passion and, at that point, I was so consumed in pleasure that I didn’t really think about what he’d been saying. Now, however, in broad daylight, it becomes real. I walk over to him and let him embrace me as I lean on his naked chest. “Good morning,” he whispers, kissing my hair.

 

“It is.” I pull back so I can see his face, and I can’t resist the urge to stroke his hair back from his forehead. It’s almost long enough to get in his eyes, but that’s not why I’m doing it; I love his soft curls between my fingers, and I think Peeta likes it too because he closes his eyes and lets out a quiet moan. “What are you making?”

 

He slowly opens his eyes. “Blackberry pancakes. I would make you waffles, but you don’t have a waffle iron,” he responds. It sounds delicious, so I release him to let him continue.

 

“Yeah, I was supposed to get one last week, but you know, then I realized I don’t cook,” I wink as I walk to the table.

 

“Are you making fun of me?” he points at me with the spatula.

 

“What if I am... What are you going to do about it?” I try to give him a sexy look, but I don’t know if I’m successful. I’ve never really  _ wanted _ to seduce a man before, but Peeta’s making me do all kinds of things I normally wouldn’t.

 

He sighs. “You can’t just walk in here, wearing my shirt and say stuff like that,” Peeta groans. “It will have consequences.”

 

“What kind of consequences?” I ask innocently, but I’m fully aware of what he’s talking about; I can see it through his pants. “I’m sure it’s nothing I can’t handle,” I smirk, glancing at his crotch. He gives me a smile and turns around to continue.

 

When Peeta’s finished by the stove he brings a stack of pancakes to the table. They’re heavenly, as is everything he makes, and after the first bite I’m reminded of how long it’s been since I’d eaten, and I devour most of them pretty fast. Peeta sits across from me, seemingly content with watching me eat.

 

“You’re not hungry?”

 

“Not really. I enjoy watching you eat,” he smiles. We don’t speak much during our - or my - meal. But it’s not uncomfortable. Peeta has some way of always putting my mind at ease.

 

I feel a drip of jam on my chin and swipe it away with my thumb. “You know, if you spill on that shirt, I have nothing to wear on my way home,” Peeta tells me. 

 

“I don’t mind,” I respond quickly.

 

“You want me to take a cab or sit on the bus half-naked?” He raises his eyebrows.

 

I think about it for a second. The privilege of seeing Peeta without a shirt on should be mine, and mine alone. So I decide to do my best to make sure his shirt stays white, and I know exactly how to do it. I’m finished eating anyway. I’m hungry for something else. I get up to take his hand, dragging him toward the bathroom. I don’t have to pull hard. When I close the door behind us I pull the shirt over my head and toss it to him, revealing my naked body.

 

“That’s so fucking hot,” he growls, closing the distance between us. His hands grab my hips, pulling me toward him, allowing me to feel his erection. I lock my hands behind his neck and pull him toward me to feel his lips on mine again. I can’t believe there was a time when I thought a life without Peeta’s touch was enough for me. Now, I’ve become addicted to it. He starts out slowly, nibbling my lower lip and letting his hands wander from my waist up my back and down again. When he grabs my ass, I moan into his mouth and our tongues meet.

 

“Take off your clothes,” I demand as we part. While he takes his pants off I start the shower and get in. It doesn’t take long for Peeta to join me and when he does, we continue our kiss. Without clothes in our way I let my hands travel along his arms, shoulders and down his back. He mirrors my actions, and his body is so warm that I barely notice the hot water cascading down on us.

 

I love the feeling of our naked chests pressed together, but I need to feel more of him. So I slide my hands down to his stomach and further downward. When I grab his cock, his breathing hitches and he moves one of his hands to my breast, squeezing it as I stroke him.

 

“I said I’d handle it, didn’t I?” I say against his lips.

 

“That’s not fair,” he says, bringing his hand to the juncture of my thighs to start rubbing me. It feels so good that I don’t know if I’ll be able to stay standing. But when he moves his finger to my entrance and start pushing, there’s a mix of pleasure and a little bit of pain. During our second round of sex last night, I was probably still riding on my high that I didn’t feel it. I love the press of his fingers, but the soreness is too prominent to let myself completely enjoy it. I don’t want Peeta to know, afraid that he’ll worry he did something wrong.

 

“Is something wrong?” he asks, breaking the kiss.  _ Fuck, why does he have to be so attentive? _

 

“No, I’m just a little sore, that’s all,” I try to shrug it off.

 

“I’m sorry.” He immediately retracts his hand and his face falls. This was exactly what I was afraid of. I’ve ruined the moment and he looks remorseful, like somehow he’s to blame, when in reality, it’s me.

 

“No. It’s not your fault.” I bring both of my hands to his face and cup his cheeks, giving him a kiss. “I just need to rest for a while.”

 

“Of course,” he whispers. I shouldn’t have told him; I should’ve just sucked it up. Physical pain I can deal with, but seeing Peeta beat himself up because he thinks he hurt me is so much worse. So I start covering the side of his neck with open-mouthed kisses. My tongue travels across his throat along his shoulders and chest. If I can’t convince him with my words, then I guess I’ll have to show him.

 

I drop to my knees and start stroking him again. When I do, he looks down on me with an expression I can’t quite read.

 

“You don’t have...”

 

“Peeta, shut up,” I say before licking the tip of his erection. At this, the corners of his mouth turn up into a smile. I return it, grabbing him at the base, and start to suck the head. Peeta buries his hand in my hair and puts the other on the wall, leaning against it.

 

“That feels...” he trails off. He doesn’t need to finish the sentence; the way his cock twitches at the touch of my tongue tells me that he likes it. We’ve been together long enough to know what the other likes. So when I grab his hips and push him into my mouth a little farther, I’m not surprised at his reaction. He gasps when I take in as much of him as I can. I know how much he loves it, but he doesn’t want to do it himself, afraid of hurting me and feeling like he’s taking advantage of my vulnerable position. Resting on my knees like this is not that comfortable for me, but it’s all worth it when I hear Peeta groaning in pleasure.

 

I let his hand set the pace when I start moving my head along his erection. He tastes so good I have to snake one of my hands between my legs to relieve some of my own tension. When I find that spot, I can’t stop the moan that escapes my lips.

 

”Katniss,” Peeta sighs and puts one of his hands on my shoulder, the other still in my hair. I release him from my mouth and look up to him, locking my eyes on his. I didn’t think it was possible, but the way he looks at me with such desire makes me even wetter. “Come here,” he says, putting both of his hands on my cheeks, gently pulling my head against his. I know that he enjoys finishing in my mouth, but he’s also a big fan of kisses. On more than one occasion he’s wanted to kiss me when he comes; I’m assuming this is one of those times so I grab his cock and continue to work him as I stand up to meet his lips, drinking from them. He surprises me by slipping one of his hands between my thighs, easily finding my clit. “I’ll be gentle,” he promises softly against my lips. All I can do is nod.

 

He rubs me with two of his fingers, making tight circles. His other hand travels from my face down my neck and stomach, lingering there. He puts his mouth to my ear. “Do you have any idea…?” He thrusts into my hand. “What you do to me?”

 

His words cause my knees to buckle, and I have to sling my free arm around him so I don’t fall. “Tell me.” He groans and moves his fingers a little faster, eliciting another moan from me.

 

“Your skin is so soft,” he says, sliding his fingers up my arm. He reaches my face and drags them across my lips. “And it’s as if these lips were made for me,” he gives me a kiss as if to prove his point, and then palms one of my breasts. “And these. Oh, I love these,” he whispers. “I get hard just thinking about how perfect they are.”

 

“Peeta,” is all I can muster before I crash my lips against his. We both speed up our motions with our hands and it doesn’t take long before I feel that pressure starts to build. I rock my hips against his hand, and I try to stroke him with the same fervor that he’s rubbing me. 

 

“I’m so...” he pants in my ear. I pull my head back to look at him, because there are not many things that are sexier than Peeta’s face right before he comes. But he’s holding back, waiting for me to finish first.

 

“Peeta, let go.” And he does. When he climaxes, he doesn’t stop moving his fingers through my folds. Not even when he spills himself onto his stomach, grunting my name, does he stop working me.

 

“Katniss,” he whispers after he stops trembling. He grabs one of my breasts again and start rolling my nipple between his fingers, mirroring the action of his hand on my clit. The only thing that could make this better is his lips on me again. It seems like Peeta has the same idea in mind because he plunges his tongue into my mouth. 

 

Everything around us disappears. It’s only me and Peeta. Exactly the way I want it. Exactly the way I want him. He shifts his hand slightly, and that’s all it takes. An electrical jolt surges through me as I let myself enjoy his touch to the fullest. I start to shake, but Peeta keeps me standing until I’ve come back to reality.

 

“That was incredible.” Understatement of the year, but it’s the only words I can come up with right now.

 

“Yeah.” Peeta gives me chaste kiss on the lips and warm smile. “It was.”

 

After that, we take our time cleaning each other. He’s very thorough, especially when lathering my breasts with soap, and my hands linger in his hair. After we’re finished he throws a towel around his waist. As much as I love Peeta without clothes, there’s something so fucking sexy with him wearing nothing but a towel, a few droplets of water trickling down his chest.

 

“Don’t do that,” he pulls me from my thoughts.

 

“What?”

 

“Look at me like that and bite your lip. I’m only human.”

 

I didn’t even realize I did that. “So am I,” I smirk.

 

We put our clothes back on. I have to take my own this time because Peeta doesn’t have anything else to wear, as he pointed out earlier, and he has to drop by the studio to take care of some bills.

 

“Doesn’t Delly take care of that stuff?” I try to ask casually as he adjusts the collar of his shirt. He doesn’t look up, locking his eyes on the floor.

 

“I don’t expect her to come in today,” he mumbles. “It’s Saturday.” I don’t want to pressure him, and he probably doesn’t even know himself what to do about her, so I drop the subject.

 

“So what do you want for your birthday?” I try to strike up another conversation.

 

“You don’t have to give me anything,” he says.

 

I don’t believe that. “That wasn’t my question.”

 

He approaches me and captures my lips in a kiss. “I mean it. I really don’t want anything. I’m not a huge fan of birthdays anyway.” Another kiss. “Besides, I already have everything I want right here,” he says sincerely. 

 

“That’s cheesy. Even for you, Peeta.” But I know that he means it, so I stand on my toes and plant a kiss on his mouth and nose, resting my hands on his chest.

 

“I know,” he smiles. “Doesn’t make it any less true.”

 

When we’re at the door, he gives me a long kiss, his hands on the the side of my face and mine locked around his neck. It’s slow but heated, and my tongue swirls around his as I pour every emotion I have into this kiss. I want to tell him how much he means to me, but I can’t bring myself to say the words.

 

I observe him as he walks down the driveway, but he stops when he passes my car, inspecting it.

 

“I thought you were going to change the tires. It’s not safe during the fall with all the rain. One sudden turn, and you’d glide right off the road.” He’s right. He told me. “I can do it if you want to,” he offers.

 

“Thanks.” If Peeta wants to change the tires of my car, I’m not going to stop him; it’ll be a pleasure watching him work. But I’m curious. “How come you know so much about changing tires? You don’t even  _ have _ a car.”

 

“ _ Have _ being the key word in that sentence _.  _ I had a Land Cruiser, but I sold it.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Don’t need one. When you live in town you can pretty much walk anywhere.”

 

Before I can respond I’m cut off by a familiar bark, and Sanders comes running, barging into Peeta.

 

“Hey, buddy,” Peeta greets him, and they start playing. Not long after, Haymitch comes walking through his front yard.

 

“He was lying on the floor, perfectly happy, and then he heard something and went batshit crazy.” When he spots Peeta playing with Sanders, he gives me a knowing smirk.  _ Please, don’t say anything inappropriate _ .

 

Peeta and Haymitch have heard about each other but haven’t met yet. I haven’t been keeping them from one another per se; the moment just hadn’t presented itself. I guess there’s no time like now because Peeta stretches out his hand, introducing himself. Haymitch actually manages to keep up a nice facade during the entire conversation, which to be honest, Peeta mostly carries. The short exchange is surprisingly casual, but right before Peeta leaves, Haymitch had apparently met his quota of social normalcy for the day.

 

“Nice meeting you, lover boy,” he yells after Peeta. I just glare at Haymitch while Sanders walks inside, and I close the door without a word.

 

My anger is soon forgotten when I spot my keys lying on the floor just inside the door. I must have dropped them last night when Peeta and I came back from the bar. I was too drunk on him to care where my keys, or anything else for that matter, landed. I smile at the memory when I put them in the basket where they belong.

 

My bedroom is a mess too. The sheets are crumpled, and some of my clothes are still scattered around the floor. Even the drawer on the nightstand is still open. But when I’m about to close it, I notice Prim’s necklace in there. I haven’t worn it since that night I met Peeta; I’ve avoided wearing it because I’m afraid he’s going to ask about it. Seeing it now, however, only serves as a reminder that there’s a part of me that Peeta doesn’t know.

 

I’ve been pushing him to tell me about  _ his _ past when I’ve practically told him nothing about mine. I’m such a hypocrite. The realization makes me restless, and I can’t stay here.

 

“Sanders, you wanna go see Peeta again?” He reacts to Peeta’s name like he usually does, tilting his head to the side and wagging his tail.

 

It’s not until I’m outside Peeta’s door that I remember he’s not here. But I know where he keeps a spare key, and I let myself in. The place feels quiet and cold without him. I’ve always liked it here, but apparently the appeal is Peeta and not the apartment itself. I’m not aware of how tired I am before I lean back on the couch, and my eyelids start to droop.

 

* * *

 

“Katniss?”

 

Something touches my arm, and my eyes snap open. I’m met with Peeta’s concerned look.

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

Instead of answering I sit up and rub one of my eyes. “What time is it?” I didn’t plan on falling asleep.

 

“Just after three. How long have you been here?” He looks worried. I don’t blame him; he didn’t know I was coming, and he found me sleeping on his couch.

 

I clear my throat. “Fuck, an hour, maybe?”

 

Peeta sits down and pulls me to him, holding me close. “If I’d known you’d be coming over I would have been home sooner.”

 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t plan on coming here. I mean… I wasn’t planning on coming here today. Right now.” I’m not making any sense. Might as well cut to the chase. I pull out the business card with the dandelion he gave me. He looks at it, then at me, confusion still written on his face.

 

“You’re giving it back?” he asks in disbelief.

 

“What? No… I want it.” I clutch it against my chest like someone is going to take it from me.

 

“Then why…?”

 

“Why did you draw this, Peeta?” I interrupt him.

 

“I told you. The necklace you wore seemed special to you. You were holding it in your hand most of the time,” he says tentatively.

 

“It  _ is _ special.” Here it goes. “Do you know why?”

 

“No.”

 

I show him the necklace. “It was my little sister’s.”

 

“It was?” He takes it carefully in his hands, taking a good look at it.

 

“Yes. Prim was four years younger than me. She died when when I was nineteen.” I already told him about her briefly, but he has no idea about the circumstances of her death.

 

He gives me the necklace back, locking my fingers around it and gently enclosing my clasped hands in his. “I’m sorry. I know it sounds cliche, but I truly am.” I believe him; Peeta always means what he says.

 

I guess I have to start from the beginning. “About a year before that, my father passed away.” Peeta simply looks at me, silently urging me to continue. “It was very sudden. He had been complaining of nausea the day before, but neither of us thought more of it. He died in his sleep before the next morning. Meningitis.” I’m surprised at how my eyes starts to prickle and how much sorrow comes back when I talk about my father. I thought it was only Prim’s death that haunted me, but I guess I never had the time to completely grieve him.

 

Peeta holds my hands a little more firmly, but he doesn’t interrupt, letting me continue at my pace.

 

“After that, my mom started working a lot more to support us. Without Dad, we lost our primary source of income. We moved to a smaller house but we still lived paycheck to paycheck, even though I chipped in as much I could, working at different temporary jobs.”

 

“I had no idea.” Peeta slides his fingers through my hair, soothing me.

 

“I know. That’s why I’m telling you now.” I inhale, letting the air fill my lungs and hoping it will also fill me with the courage to continue. “Prim and I started to drift apart. I worked a lot, and she spent less time at home; I even caught her drinking a few times. I assumed it was because we were both grieving our father, so I didn’t make a big deal out of it.” Tears are now streaming down my cheeks, and Peeta wipes some of them away with his thumbs. 

 

“Katniss, you don’t have to tell me all of this now. It’s killing me to see you this upset,” he pleads.

 

“Peeta, please. I have to do this now. I don’t know if I’ll be able to otherwise.” He brings me even closer to him so that I can rest my head on his chest. His shirt is getting all wet from my tears, but he doesn’t seem to care.

 

“Okay. Whatever you want.” Talking about Prim usually feels like balancing on the ledge of a dark, steep well. With heels. In the dark. But with Peeta, there is light.  _ He _ is the light. Holding my hand, he pulls me back to safety, and I’m back on solid ground.

 

“About a year after Dad died, I found her in her room one morning. There was a half-empty alcohol bottle on the floor and pills everywhere. She was gone long before I even picked up the phone to call 911,” I sob.

 

Peeta brings his hands to my cheek and hugs me tighter. We sit like that for a couple of minutes, with me sobbing against his shirt as he holds me, slowly rocking me back and forth. In addition to always knowing what to say, Peeta also knows when it’s best to not say anything at all. The warmth of his embrace is what I need right now, and his steadiness helps me to continue.

 

“We never found out if it was...” I can’t bring myself to say the word because that would make it too real.  _ Suicide _ . “The doctors only told us that it was a combination of alcohol and antidepressants. They couldn’t tell if it was intentional or not.” I try to keep it as clinical as I can. I can’t start talking about my feelings. How the guilt of not being able to care for my closest kin sometimes feels like it’s going to consume me.

 

“What do  _ you _ think?” Peeta asks carefully. I’m taken aback by his question. No one has ever asked  _ me _ . Everyone has always tried to convince me that Prim would never do anything like that. Like they knew her better than me. Maybe they did, because I have no idea how she managed to get a hold of both alcohol and prescription drugs. 

 

“I don’t know,” I answer truthfully. 

 

I want to tell him more. About how my mother blamed me for not being more attentive toward Prim’s behaviour and that I  _ should  _ have picked up on it sooner. I thought I would be able to tell him everything today, but I’m too emotionally drained to continue. But there’s something he needs to know. “Do you remember your painting at the art show? The one we talked about?”

 

“Yeah,” Peeta answers in an exhale. “I remember.”

 

“Her eyes were blue too. That was why I was acting so weird. All the memories of her, both good and bad, came back to me when I saw that painting.” Peeta swallows, and I raise my head to look at him. I thought I would see pity, but I don’t. It’s… pain? Sorrow? Both?

 

I instinctively straddle his lap and hug him, not knowing if it’s for my benefit or his. He envelops me in his arms. “I’m sorry for what you’ve had to go through,” he croaks.

 

“Thank you,” I breathe, and it’s the first time I’ve meant it. His hands slide down my spine, and he moves to get up. “Where are you going?”

 

“I’m just going to get a blanket. You’re shivering.” I didn’t even realize I was cold. Peeta soon comes back and we lie on the couch, with him hugging me from behind, and I feel my eyelids starting to feel heavy again.

 

“You want to know something?” he whispers in my ear. His breath against my skin still makes goosebumps break out all over my body.

 

“Yes,” I answer him, hoping he’ll be able to distract me.

 

“After you left, I was afraid I’d been too forward with that drawing. Like I was prying into your personal life. So when you sent me that text the next day, I thought you were mad at me.”

 

He couldn’t be further from the truth. “I wasn’t.”

 

“I’m really glad you texted me, though,” he says quietly, kissing the the skin beneath my ear.

 

“Me too.”

 

* * *

 

I’m cold when I wake up. It’s dark out, so I must have slept more than I thought I needed. There’s some light coming from Peeta’s studio, so I get up from the couch, wrapping the blanket around me.

 

He’s sitting on the floor, his back against the wall, and Sanders is sleeping next to him. On the opposite side of the room is the painting we talked about. He’s leaning his elbow on his bent knee with his hand buried in his hair, staring at the painting. He hasn’t noticed me yet.

 

“Peeta?” I say, lightly threading my fingers through his hair.

 

He looks up to me, rubbing his eyes. They’re red-streaked, and I sit next to him, putting my head on his shoulder. He rests his head gently on mine.

 

His voice is quiet but tense. “I think it’s time I tell you the truth about that painting.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter, I promise! If you're enjoying this story, please leave a review or look me up on tumblr. I'm maxwellandlovelace. Thank you for reading!


	11. XI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to papofglencoe for your wonderful friendship and support. This story is better because of you! <3
> 
> Trigger warning: This chapter centers around a child dying, and there's brief mention of abortion. If either, or both of them, is a trigger, you might want to skip this.

_No one knows what it's like_

_To be the bad man_

_To be the sad man_

_Behind blue eyes_

 

_No one knows what it's like_

_To feel these feelings_

_Like I do_

_And I blame you_

 

_No one bites back as hard_

_On their anger_

_None of my pain and woe_

_Can show through_

 

_But my dreams_

_They aren't as empty_

_As my conscience seems to be_

 

_I have hours, only lonely_

_My love is vengeance_

_That's never free_

 

 

* * *

 

Peeta’s POV

 

_October 4th, four years earlier_

 

I love birthdays. That’s why I’m in such a good mood when I walk up to the front door of my parents’ house. I press the button on the key to lock my car, hearing the familiar beep from the doors locking. I spend all my birthdays here. After Aaron and Rye moved out, they always came here for my birthday, since I was the last one to leave the nest. And after that we continued the tradition; even though I’m not living here anymore, it wouldn’t feel right to celebrate it elsewhere. Besides, the table in my apartment would be cramped if we were to sit there all five of us. And Mom would _not_ appreciate that.

 

“I’m here,” I announce as I walk through the door, not bothering to knock. Dad comes out of the kitchen as I’m putting my jacket in the coat closet next to the door. In the last couple of years his hair has become thinner, and the gray part that was previously only confined to his temples has started to grow. He doesn’t like it, but I think it adds to his character. At one point he had the same shade of blonde as me, so I guess I know what’s in store for me.

 

“Peeta! Happy birthday, son,” he exclaims, giving me a hug that I eagerly return. Dad’s always been very generous with hugs, a trait that I would like to think I’ve inherited. I don’t get to spend as much time him as I would like, so I revel in these rare moments, where neither Mom or any of my brothers are around.

 

“Thanks.”

 

When he releases me from his embrace he ruffles my hair, effectively messing it up. “You need a haircut.”

 

“Please. Mom showed me pictures from when you guys were younger. At least I can’t put mine in a ponytail,” I smirk, knowing that those pictures were never meant for my eyes.

 

“You’re early,” he informs me, obviously trying to change the subject. I’m always early, and he knows why.

 

“I know. Have you started yet?”

 

He looks at me almost like he’s offended, mouth open and eyebrows raised. “Of course not. I wouldn’t dare,” he winks.

 

“Good,” I say with a smile.

 

We go into the kitchen together, his arms slung around my shoulders.

 

“There it is,” Dad says, pointing to the cake in the middle of the table. The baking is done, and all that’s left to do is decorate it. We’ve been doing this together for as long as I can remember. Ever since I was a kid, I wanted to help out with the birthday cakes. I remember Dad beaming with pride over the cake for my eleventh birthday. It looked like crap, but it was the first one I made all by myself. As the years passed, I got better, but I still want to do it with him. Growing up with two brothers, time alone with either parent can be hard to come by, so I’ve always seen it as an opportunity to spend some quality time with him.

 

He’s already laid out all the tools we need, and we mix the ingredients before we start decorating. We don’t talk much, only concentrating on the cake and frosting. It’s a silent dance, and we’re in perfect sync. Painting on a canvas is one thing; you have more possibilities, since it’s flat and the surface is hard. But a cake is soft, and you have to follow the curves and shapes of it. It feels more natural, and there’s something soothing about that. Every year it’s a different color, and this year we go for blue. We mix all types of shades, even throwing in a dash of turquoise.

 

Just as we’re finishing up, Mom comes into the kitchen. I wipe my hands on the apron and ask, “What do you think?”

 

“It looks great,” she tells us. “Happy birthday, Peeta.” She gives me a kiss on the cheek as I put my arm around her shoulders.

 

“Thanks, Mom,” I say, hugging her from the side.

 

“When are the other two little devils coming here?” Dad asks.

 

“I’m not little.” Rye surprises us from the door, nodding in my direction. He doesn’t have to say it; I know he’s referring to me. I have to bite my tongue not to indulge him by responding to his comment, because that’s exactly what he wants. I’ve heard it all my life, and neither Aaron nor Rye gets tired of teasing. _Especially_ not Rye.

 

“Rye, we didn’t hear you,” Dad says.

 

“Well, not everyone can have Peeta’s heavy gait,” he responds.

 

“Hey, it’s my birthday. Can’t I have this day off?” I try to bargain.

 

“Sorry, little bro. No can do. I don’t get to see you often, and I have to make up for lost time,” he says as he approaches me and gives me a hug. He’s a tease, but he cares. “Happy birthday,” he whispers in my ear.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“What’s up with this hugging fest?” I hear Aaron’s voice. “I heard it’s someone’s birthday today, so I brought a present.” He gestures for me to take the package he’s carrying in his hands. We usually don’t buy expensive gifts, but they’re always thoughtful, and the price isn’t important.

 

I unwrap the present, unsurprised by what I find inside. It’s an apron; they’re well aware of my love for baking _and_ cooking. But obviously, there’s more to it; it wouldn’t be their style without a personal touch. It’s custom made with _I make the best Peeta bread_ written on the front. “It’s from both of us,” Rye chips in.

 

Everyone laughs. “Very funny. Thanks, I guess.” _I love it._

 

“Hey, you get to make bread jokes with the ladies. What do I’ve got? Rye is a fucking grass, thin as paper. You’ve got it easy, man,” Rye complains.

 

“Rye, language,” Mom scolds him.

 

“Oh relax, Mom,” he says, brushing it off. “We’re all grown-ups here.”

 

“If you have to point it out, you’re not a real grown-up,” she responds. That shuts him up, because you can’t really argue with that.

 

“And technically, you can also make bread jokes,” I add, looking at him and trying to hold back a smile. He just glares at me. _I’m going to call that a win._

 

The dinner is relatively quiet, and I enjoy the time I get to spend with my family. It’s rare these days, so I try not to let Mom’s comments get to me.

 

“All I’m saying is, Peeta, I don’t think painting will pay the rent,” she says, shaking her head.

 

Dad tries to take control of the conversation so it doesn’t become an argument. “Connie, if painting is what Peeta wants to do, who are we to stand in his way? You know how talented he is.”

 

Mom doesn’t support all of my decisions, but Dad has always been my biggest supporter. Even when Rye and Aaron picked on me when we were younger, he always stood up for me. I hope he can see the gratitude in my eyes when I throw him a glance. “Thanks, Dad.”

 

He nods back to me, seemingly understanding the sentiment.

 

“I’m only trying to look out for you, Peeta.” She says that’s what she wants, but it’s hard to miss the hidden meaning behind her words. What she really wants is someone to take over the bakery when Dad retires. I know she likes Aaron the most, so he’s the natural first choice. He’s the _firstborn_ after all, but she also wants someone who can actually run it. Considering that neither Aaron nor Rye studied business, apparently I’m the best option. But I haven’t volunteered for the job. I love baking, but I don’t want to make it my career for fear I’ll grow tired of it.

 

After we’ve cleared the table Dad suggests, “Let’s take a picture of you boys,” like he just got the idea. We’ve been doing this since I can remember. We always take a picture of us once a year.

 

“Okay,” we all agree simultaneously.

 

“Why does Rye always gets to be in the middle?” Aaron questions.

 

Rye points at Aaron. “Because you’re the oldest. You’re always first on all the holiday cards after Mom and Dad. And Peeta always gets away with everything. All I have is being in the middle in the photos,” Rye explains, like he’s rehearsed it. But the notion that the youngest always gets away with everything is nothing but a pure myth.

 

“Cheez, martyr much?” Aaron counters.

 

We’ve taken a couple of pictures when the doorbell rings. All of us look around at each other like we’re mentally counting to see if anyone’s missing.

 

“I’ll get it,” Dad tells us, putting the camera on the table and heading for the front door. We’re scrolling through the pictures Dad took when he calls for me.

 

“Peeta? It’s for you.” Why is someone coming _here_ to see me? I don’t live here anymore.

 

When I get to the door I find the two people I’d expected least to see. I’ve barely given them any thought for a long time.

 

“Mr. and Mrs. Washington?” I haven’t seen them in almost three years, and them showing up on my parents’ doorstep takes me completely by surprise. They’re Cashmere’s parents. Cashmere and I met in high school and stayed together until about three years ago, when she decided I wasn’t good enough for her anymore. _I’m sorry, Peeta. I don’t love you anymore. There’s someone else._ Those were her exact words. I know because I’ve been playing them on repeat in my head ever since, wondering how I managed to screw things up that royally. She was the one to break it off, so her parents paying me a visit three years later seems odd.

 

“Peeta,” Mrs. Washington says. Her eyes are red, and she can barely look at me.

 

“What are you doing here?” is all I can muster. Their presence puzzles me.

 

Turning to Dad, Mr. Washington says, “Marcus. We need to talk to Peeta.” He pauses. “In private.” Dad looks as confused as I feel.

 

“Okay, let’s go outside.” Opening the door, I motion for them to step out and look back to Dad. “I’ll be right back.” He looks at me uncertainly, as if to ask if everything is okay. I just nod and close the door.

 

“It’s Cashmere,” Mr. Washington starts as soon as we’re outside. There’s a pang in my heart at the mention of her name. I’ve been trying so hard to suppress the memories of her. I’m over her, but the hurt from her abandonment still lingers.

 

“What about…?”

 

“There was an accident,” Mrs. Washington explains quietly, her eyes watery.

 

“What? Is she alright?” I ask before she has a chance to continue. I may still hold a grudge against Cashmere for walking out on me without much of an explanation, but I wish her no harm.

 

Mr. Washington puts a hand on my shoulder. “There was a lot of rain, and the road was slippery.” He takes a breath. “She’s fine, physically.”

 

I don’t understand. If she’s fine, why are they here? I cross my arms across my chest, beckoning them to carry on and get to the point of their visit.

 

“There was someone else in the car,” he continues. “Not long after you two broke up, Cashmere gave birth to a baby girl, our granddaughter, Charlie.” They’re not making any sense, throwing out random information. I didn’t know Cashmere had a daughter. Not that I’d expect her to tell me; we haven’t spoken since that horrible day when she left.

 

“How long after?” The father is probably the guy she left me for, but I don’t see the connection.

 

“About six months.”

 

_Six months?_ I can’t believe this. She was pregnant with another man’s child while we were still together. I drop my arms in defeat. It feels like a slap in the face.

 

“So you came here to... what? Tell me she was cheating on me? To rub it in my face?” I can’t stop the anger flaring up. She was having an affair and got pregnant.

 

“Peeta. Cashmere didn’t cheat on you,” Mrs. Washington tells me, locking her red-streaked eyes on mine. Then who’s the…? _Oh_.

 

I back away from them, slowly shaking my head. This is not happening. _No._ I would have known if I had a daughter. You’re supposed to sense these things, right? Like some supernatural bond or some shit. I have a daughter. _I have a daughter._ Every word in that sentence plays over and over in my head until they start to sound strange. I slide down the door and sit on the ground, not trusting my legs at the moment. _I have a daughter._ Am I happy? Am I angry? Something else? I don’t know.

 

I can’t tell how long I sit there before I can speak again. “Why are you telling me this now?” My voice breaks at the last word, and the anger comes back. How old is she? How many years, months, weeks, and days have I missed? Her first laugh, her first tooth, her first steps…

 

“Because… Charlie is... not fine. She was in the car too.”

 

_Fuck fuck fuck._ I have no control over this situation, and I don’t know how to handle it, but I don’t want to give them the satisfaction of seeing me fall apart like this. They obviously knew about her, but chose not to tell me. They’re dead to me for all I care. And as for Cashmere...

 

Even if I’d known what to say, my throat feels too constricted to talk. I just stare at them, trying to put on a neutral face, silently urging them to keep talking.

 

“It’s bad. You should come back to D.C. with us. If you want to see her before… before...” Mrs. Washington breaks into tears.

 

“Before what?” I’m afraid to ask, but I have to know.

 

Mr. Washington looks at me, defeat written across his face. “She won’t be waking up, Peeta.”

 

* * *

 

“You look like you’ve just seen a ghost,” Aaron tells me when I come back inside. _Maybe I have._

 

“What did they want, Peeta? Are you alright?” Dad asks, putting his hand on my shoulder.

 

“Yeah, I’m sorry, I have to go.” I grab my keys and leave, trying to avoid any questions to which I don’t have any answers.

 

On my way back home my phone keeps buzzing in my pocket, but I don’t check it until I’m back inside my apartment and see I have multiple missed calls and text messages. _Why did you leave, man? Are you alright?_ And several variations of that. _If you don’t want to talk, that’s fine, just let us know that you’re okay._ I scoff to myself. I will _never_ be okay. I quickly type out _I’m home,_ sending it to my father. Turning off the phone, I throw it onto the couch and walk straight to my bedroom, slumping down on the bed.

 

What the fuck do I do? How do you handle a situation like this? I usually know these types of things, but for the first time in my life I come up short.

 

I have to sort this out. I’m Peeta Mellark. I’m a painter. I’m a baker. I’m a father. _Fuck, I’m a father._ I’m a soon-to-be ex-father.

 

It’s the last part that does it. Soon-to-be. _She’s still alive._ I have to look past my own anger and hurt. I won’t let her pay for Cashmere’s mistakes. I have to go to her.

 

* * *

 

I don’t tell my family where I’m going or why; I don’t know if I could gather enough strength for that. The drive to D.C. takes about five hours, but it feels shorter. I thought it would feel like a marathon, so I’m surprised when I’m almost there. Cashmere’s parents gave me the name and address to the hospital that they’re staying at; they also offered to let me ride in their car, but I opted out of that. I can’t handle spending several hours in a confined space with them right now.

 

The lobby in the hospital is big, with children playing with toys in a corner, people chatting and doctors in white coats walking around. The receptionist is nice, flashing me a wide smile and her pleasantries leave a bad taste in my mouth. How can everyone keep doing their everyday business like usual when there’s a child dying? _My child._

 

The first thing I _hear_ when the elevator door opens is crying. I guess I shouldn’t expect anything else; I’m in a hospital after all, and it’s not like many people are here by choice. The first thing I _see_ is Cashmere; it’s impossible not to recognize her. She’s talking to a doctor, and she’s obviously been crying. She’s not the same perfect girl I’ve imagined in my head all these years; I guess we’ve both changed. I can’t quite read her facial expression when she sees me. Fear? She walks up to me carefully, and I have to restrain myself from backing away. She locks her arms around me, sobbing into my chest, barely overpowering the crying from the room next to us.

 

“Peeta,” she whimpers after a while. Her arms around me are restricting, and I want to get rid of her hold on me.

 

“Where is she?” I try to keep calm because if I give in to the emotions boiling on the inside, I don’t think I will be able to keep it together. She doesn’t say anything, just keeps crying. “Where?” I ask again.

 

Instead of telling me, she releases me, grabbing my hand and pulling me toward a closed door. I really don’t want her to touch me at all, but I can’t make a scene about it here and now. This is not about me or Cashmere. Without a word she opens the door, and all the courage I thought I’d built up comes crashing down. Everything around me turns gray, Cashmere disappears, and all I can see is the small, lifeless child lying on a hospital bed that’s way too big for her. There are tubes coming out of her nose and mouth and regular beeps that I assume represent her heartbeats.

 

I drop Cashmere’s hand and walk to the bed in what feels like slow motion, letting my eyes linger on one of her hands. If I look at her face again I’m afraid that the little composure I have left will crumble to pieces. Instead, I sit on the chair next to the bed and grab her small hand in mine. _This is my daughter’s hand._ It’s warm and smooth, and, right now, it’s the only thing keeping me from crumbling. But it doesn’t stop the tears from falling silently across my cheeks.

 

There’s a thin tube on the back of her hand; I’m assuming it’s the IV. I let my eyes travel up her delicate arm, passing the hospital bracelet with her name on it. When I reach her shoulders and neck I notice a lock of hair that’s fallen out of her braid and I have to resist the urge to tuck it behind her ear. I have to brace myself before I reach her face, but when I do I’m surprised by feeling a sort of calm. She looks so peaceful, almost like she’s sleeping. _I just wish I had the power to wake you up._ I’d give anything for that.

 

I want to touch her face, but a part of me feels like that would be crossing some sort of invisible line. Even if I’m her father, she hasn’t given me her permission; she doesn’t even know who I am. So I decide to stay like this, content with holding her hand in mine, silently begging her to open her eyes.

 

There’s hand on my shoulder, and I flinch at the touch.

 

“Peeta. I think we need to talk,” Cashmere whispers tentatively. _You think?_ She’s three years too late, and I have no interest in helping ease her conscience. I don’t want to leave this room, afraid that if it closes I won’t be allowed in here again. But I reluctantly comply with her wish, mostly out of curiosity of what she could possibly have to say for herself.

 

We walk out to a small balcony on the same floor. I guess it’s the closest we’ll get to some sort of privacy. She doesn’t say anything, only looks at me with pleading eyes.

 

I cross my arms, my patience already running short. “You said you wanted to talk. So talk.”

 

Her eyes starts to water again. “Peeta, you have to understand. I was so scared when I found out I was pregnant,” she weeps.

 

“I can understand that.” I do. Getting pregnant at that age is probably terrifying. “What I _don’t_ understand is why you didn’t tell me.” I try to keep my anger in check, but it’s hard.

 

“I was so afraid that you were going to be mad at me,” she says, refusing to meet my eyes.

 

“Why the fuck would I be mad at you? It takes two people to get pregnant, you know.”

 

“It’s just… I thought you were going to be so angry and want me to have an abortion.” The last word comes out almost as a whisper, like she’s afraid of saying it.

 

The reasoning behind her decision is a kick in the stomach. “What? If you thought for one second that that was how I was going to react, then you clearly didn’t know me at all. I would _never have_ asked you, or anyone else for that matter, to have an abortion.” I’m starting to feel sick. How could she have thought that I wouldn’t have supported her, _whatever_ decision she would have made?

 

“I didn’t know...”

 

“No, you obviously didn’t. So you made that choice _for_ me.” I have to ball my hands into tight fists to contain some of anger that’s threatening to boil over. “Jesus, Cashmere. You didn’t even give me the chance.” I start pacing to try to relieve some of my frustration.

 

“Do you think it was _easy_ for me? Raising her all by myself, with no one to help?” Cashmere raises her voice.

 

“Don’t you dare put this on me.” I mirror her tone. “ _You_ made that choice. If you’d let me, I would have been there every step of the way.”

 

“You’re not the only one who’s grieving here, Peeta. Don’t you think it’s killing me see my daughter lying in there like that? With all those tubes everywhere.” She’s on the brink of crying, and I have to suppress my instinct of comforting her.

 

“You’re fucking unbelievable. You’re right, she’s _your_ daughter,” I yell, pointing at her and hoping that the hurt I’m feeling doesn’t show. “You have all the memories to prove it. I don’t. I don’t even know the color of her eyes.” She opens her mouth to speak, but apparently changes her mind.

 

She didn’t even think I deserved to know I have a child, and that’s the biggest betrayal of all. “You broke my heart three years ago, and now, you broke the rest,“ I say in defeat. ”Don’t talk to me. Don’t touch me. Just ignore me; you seem pretty good at it.”

 

Maybe I’m being unreasonable, I don’t know. All I know is that I can’t even look at her without feeling like I’m dying a little bit inside. So I leave her there, intent on not giving her another minute of my time. On my way back, I almost bump into a woman on her way out to the balcony. She probably heard the entire exchange. Great. _Just fucking great._

 

* * *

 

I’m sitting in a sad-ass excuse for a cafeteria, sipping on some tasteless brown beverage that they insist on calling coffee, staring at the magazine in my hands. I’m emotionally exhausted from yesterday’s confrontation with Cashmere, and I’m still trying to process everything. I see the words in front of me, but I don’t _read_ them. How the fuck did I manage get myself into this mess? I’m too wrapped up in my own mind to notice the woman sitting down on the opposite side of the table.

 

“Enjoying the coffee?” she startles me from my thoughts. She has dark, short hair, and her sweater is way too big for her small frame. It’s the same woman I saw yesterday outside the balcony.

 

“Not really. It’s yours if you want.” I’m not in a talkative mood, especially not about what transpired yesterday, or why I’m here at all.

 

“Please, anyone who drinks that shit must be completely brainless.” She’s right; it’s awful. But I really don’t want to chit-chat.

 

“Look, I’m sorry, but I don’t think I’m the best company right now.” I don’t want to be rude, but I want to be left alone.

 

“Look around, Blondie.” She makes a swirling motion with her finger. “You think you’re the only one? We’re in a hospital, for fuck’s sake.”

 

I put down the magazine to look at her, wondering if she wants something, or if she’s lonely, just wanting to talk to someone. I can do that. Maybe it’ll distract me, if only for a little while.

 

“You’re right.”

 

“I figured we might as well get to know each other. Since we have adjoining cells and all,” she says, leaning back in her chair.

 

“Adjoining cells?”

 

“Yeah, that’s what it feels like anyway. A prison. Or a torture chamber. Take your pick.” She pauses, and her eyes flicker across the room before continuing. “I saw you yesterday,” she says, pulling on an invisible thread on the hem of her sweater.

 

“I know.”

 

“I was about to grab a smoke, but apparently I’m not the only one who’s found the only private corner on this floor.”

 

I’m embarrassed. I don’t want to talk about how I lashed out like that. I know Cashmere’s hurting too, and I should have contained my anger. But it was like someone hijacked my mind and I couldn’t control it. I meant every word, but that was neither the time nor place.

 

“I’m sorry you had to hear that,” I apologize.

 

“Please, it’s the best gossip I’ve heard in a week.”

 

“I’m glad my clusterfuck of a personal life is amusing to you,” I say dryly, looking her in the eye. She has a tough exterior, but I can see there’s turmoil going on inside. So I decide to cut her some slack.

 

“So what’s your name?” I try to change the subject.

 

“Johanna,” she mumbles, pulling the arms of her sweater over her hands.

 

“I’m Peeta. What are you in for?” I try to make a joke, but it misses the mark.

 

“What?” Confusion is written across her face.

 

“I’m continuing you prison analogy. Keep up.” This earns me the semblance of a smile.

 

I don’t know how long we sit there, but it’s a kind of a relief to talk to someone, and she obviously already knows my story.

 

Her family was out on a sailing trip when they found themselves caught in an unexpected thunderstorm. Their boat capsized and both of her parents drowned; they haven’t found them yet, but right now it’s more about salvaging their bodies than it is a rescue mission. Her sister is here, and they still don’t know if she’ll pull through.

 

I don’t want to wallow in other people’s misery, but it’s a welcome distraction to let go some of my own grievances and share some else’s. But I can’t keep avoiding Cashmere forever. Whether I like it or not, our paths will have to cross.

 

But when I get back the room she is the least of my worries. All I can focus on is the girl lying underneath that fucking ugly yellow blanket. I know she’s mine; she got the Mellark nose, and her blonde hair is the same shade as Rye’s. Cashmere has brown eyes, so Charlie’s could be either her color or mine, but I don’t want to ask. I’ve said everything I wanted to say.

 

The decision to take her off life support was Cashmere’s, since she’s the sole guardian. The doctor said they _could_ keep her alive, but the chances of her waking up are slim to none. I don’t question her decision; I’d probably make the same one. _If I’d had any say_.

 

Sitting here for four days straight gives you a lot of time to think. Can you miss someone you’ve never met? Can you grieve someone you didn’t even knew existed?

 

I spend most of the time sitting by her bed, carefully clutching her hand in mine and trying to commit every part of her to memory. I can’t help but fantasize about teaching her the different painting techniques, how you angle the brush to get the shading just right. Or stolen Sunday mornings, skipping breakfast to make cupcakes instead. I don’t know if I’m only adding to my pain, but I can’t stop my mind from wandering.

 

I will never comfort her when she’s hurting, never be a shoulder to cry on after a heartbreak. I will watch her die, knowing that I will never truly meet her.

 

The days pass quicker than I thought, so when Dr. Paylor taps me on the shoulder, I feel like a kid who’s being awakened early in the morning. _Just a few more minutes._ But I know it’s hopeless. They’ve already waited a couple of extra days, giving me the chance to come here. I wasn’t good enough for her when she was alive, but now, in death, my presence is suddenly acceptable and expected.

 

* * *

 

I don’t intervene with any of the funeral plans. How could I plan a funeral for someone I didn’t even know? Knowing that most of the people who will be attending won’t have the faintest clue who I am, I decide to sit in the back, not drawing any unwanted attention to myself. I also want the option of leaving unnoticed if feel like I can’t stay.

 

I manage to stay through the entire service, though barely holding onto sanity by clutching the bench to the point of pain to keep myself from breaking. After the ceremony, I leave the church with every intention of _never_ coming back.

 

There is nothing left for me here, except for memories of betrayal, loss, and the painful knowledge that I will never be able to look into my daughter’s eyes.

 

* * *

 

_No one knows what it's like_

_To be the bad man_

_To be the sad man_

_Behind blue eyes_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone's wondering, the prologue was written in Peeta's POV. Sorry for keeping you all in the dark. Please drop me a line, either here or on tumblr (maxwellandlovelace) and tell me what you think.
> 
> The lyrics in the beginning and the end are from Behind Blue Eyes by The Who.


	12. XII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it's been a while, but writing this story probably took its toll on me this last month and I felt kind of blocked. HUGE thanks to papofglencoe for betaing and for being freaking awesome! <3

I don’t know how long we sit there, me leaning on his shoulder and his head lightly resting on mine. His voice hasn’t broken once, and he seems surprisingly composed, considering what he’s told me. I don’t know how to respond. I’ve never been good with words, but right now I’m at a complete loss. What do you say to someone who has lost everything? To be honest, I’m surprised that he’s still functioning at all. How do you _not_ let the darkness consume you after something like that? But now is not the time for questions; he’s already told me more than enough.

 

“I’m so tired, Katniss.”

 

I grab his hand, bringing it to my lips and kissing his knuckles. His eyes have been locked to the floor the entire time, but now he looks at me. His voice may have been steady, but the tears on his cheeks and the redness in his eyes tell a different story; the sight is almost enough to break me too. But I have to stay strong for him. I stand up, not letting go of his hand, and start walking to the bedroom. He follows easily, and as soon as we’re inside he sits on the bed, shoulders slumped. It’s dark outside; the only light is coming from the street lights. I quickly check my phone for the time. Almost midnight.

 

I’ve always seen Peeta as strength personified, physically and mentally, but watching him like this makes me see him in a new perspective. I don’t think less of him, instead I find it extremely courageous to show me this side of him, and it makes me love him even more. Wait, _love_? No, I can’t afford to think about that right now, when this is about Peeta.

 

I settle on my knees behind him, bringing my hands to the front of his shirt and unbuttoning it. After the last button, I glide my hands from his neck and slide the shirt off his arms. He doesn’t say anything, but he makes no effort to stop me either. I take it as a silent cue to continue.

 

“Lie back,” I instruct, and he complies. When he rests his head on the pillow I get a glimpse of his eyes again, and I can’t stop myself from moving my hands to both sides of his face and stroking his cheeks with my thumbs, removing some of his tears. I wish removing his suffering was as easy. He closes his eyes, and I lean forward to kiss his eyelids, trying to kiss his pain away. I pull away and start unbuttoning his pants, and he lifts his hips to help me slide them off. I swiftly remove my own jeans and sweater, leaving only my underwear and a T-shirt. When I lie next to him, Peeta pulls up the covers, cocooning us both, and I rest my head on his shoulder with my hand on his chest. But he motions for me to move on top of him. At this point, he could’ve asked me for anything and I would’ve gladly given it to him. He puts his hands on my waist, burying his face in the crook of my neck.

 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “I’m so fucked up, Katniss.” And for the first time today, his voice breaks.

 

“None of this is your fault,” I try to console him, but I know it’s just a platitude. I drag my fingers through his hair. “Let’s just rest, okay? You don’t have to say anything.”

 

“Okay.”

 

* * *

 

I’m stirred awake by the sun lighting up the room; I forgot to close the blinds. Next to me, Peeta’s still sleeping. During the night we’ve shifted so he’s hugging me, pressing his chest against my back and his arm protectively looped around my waist. I’m glad it’s Sunday, allowing us to sleep in. I carefully remove the covers to get up and shut the blinds, trying my best not wake up Peeta.

 

“Where are you going?” he rasps. I can hear he just woke up.

 

“I’ll be right back,” I respond, swiftly closing the curtain before returning to Peeta’s waiting embrace. I place my head on his shoulder and my arm around his neck. He gives me a tight hug and only lets go enough to still hold me close, his hand on my back. He kisses my hair, and I let out a contented sigh when I feel his lips on me. The proximity of our bodies makes my heart speed up, and I feel the blood pumping through my veins. I curse myself for how my body reacts to his touch, knowing that this is not the time.

 

“I’m sorry for being such a mess,” he croaks. _Why does he keep apologizing for something he doesn’t have any control over?_

 

“None of this is your fault,” I repeat my words from last night. Maybe this time they’ll stick. He doesn’t respond. “This is not on _you_. It’s on her.”

 

He moves his hand to the side of my face, gently stroking the shell of my ear. “Thank you,” he breathes.

 

“Is Cashmere even her real name?” The words are out before I can stop them. How can I ask such a stupid question in this delicate situation? “I’m sorry, that was inappr...” Peeta puts two of his fingers on my lips, stopping me.

 

“It’s okay. I don’t mind.” He pauses, the corners of his mouth turning up a little. “No, it’s not. Her first name is Cassandra, but she thought it was too ordinary in high school. So she took the first part and combined it with the first part of her middle name, Meredith.”

 

“Hm. Clever.”

 

“Yeah,” he says, turning his head away. I put my hand on his cheek, gently pulling it back so that I can look into his eyes. They’re not red-rimmed anymore, but it seems like he’s somewhere else. My heart goes out to him, wishing there was something I could say or do to make him feel better. It couldn’t have been easy bringing all those memories back to the surface.

 

“Is there something I can do?”

 

“No. Just stay here with me.”

 

“I’m not planning on leaving.” I don’t know if I’m talking about this particular situation or in general, but he doesn’t say anything. I instinctively raise my head and give him a peck on the mouth, our lips barely touching, but there’s so much emotion in that small gesture. There’s something comforting about him always being so warm, like a fireplace. It makes me feel like I’m exactly where I should be.

 

I continue giving him light kisses down his cheeks and the side of his neck. When I reach his arm I notice his tattoo and kiss it too. _Cor Caroli. Charles’ heart._ Why didn’t I make the connection sooner?

 

“Can I ask you a question?” I whisper.

 

“Anything.”

 

“Was she…?” I hesitate, not knowing if it’s my place to ask. “Was she named after you?”

 

He exhales. “I don’t know. I haven’t spoken to Cashmere since...” He doesn’t finish the sentence, but I know what he means.

 

“Okay.” I don’t want to pry anymore than I already have, so I just let my head rest on his arm and we both fall silent. After a while Peeta starts breathing heavily, having fallen back asleep. I can’t help but feel like he’s avoiding the topic, but knowing what a big step it was for him last night, I let him have this one. Maybe he’ll be more comfortable talking about it later. I probably won’t be able to fall asleep again; I usually can’t, but Peeta’s light snores are kind of relaxing, and soon I’m feeling drowsy again.

 

* * *

 

I’m surprised that I managed to fall back asleep, but this has been no ordinary weekend. When I wake up, someone is staring at me. I turn my head to meet Peeta’s gaze.

 

“Hey,” I greet him with a smile.

 

“Hey.” I check the time on my phone, 8.32 am, and when I turn back to Peeta he quickly moves so that he’s on top of me. I’m unprepared and let out a yelp at his sudden motion. “Didn’t I tell you? I was a wrestler in high school.”

 

“No. But that explains your flexibility.” Feeling his body pressing me into the mattress makes me all fuzzy inside. “Why don’t you put that to good use?”

 

A mischievous grin spreads across his face, and I raise my head to meet his lips. I put my hands around his neck and drag him toward me. “Do you have… any… condoms?” I manage to ask between kisses.

 

He pulls back, a look of concern on his face. “Yeah. Are you sure?”

 

“Yes, I’m sure. I promise,” I say, planting a kiss on his mouth for good measure.

 

“Okay.”

 

He pulls out a condom from his drawer, and I’m amazed at how quickly he puts in on. “You’re fast.”

 

“I’m glad speed impresses you,” he winks.

 

“So fucking sexy,” I let out, ignoring his comment and guiding him to my entrance. “I want you, Peeta. I need you.” It’s the truth; I need him like I need air. How can I have lived so long without him in my life?

 

Without hesitation, he pushes into me and his cock feels incredible, filling me up. I meet his thrusts, urging him to go faster. He understands my meaning and pushes into me deeper and harder, driving me closer to the brink.

 

Peeta comes first, and after he’s stopped shuddering he finishes me off with his fingers. I feel privileged that he thinks my orgasm is just as, or even more, important as his own. And I love him for it. I can’t deny it any longer. The way he has lit up my world, showing me that even if you’ve been through hell, things can be good again. There’s is no question about it. I love Peeta Mellark.

 

* * *

 

I can’t decide. Should I wear my hair in the usual braid or down? Normally, I wouldn’t care, but I’m nervous about meeting Peeta’s parents. Peeta’s assured me that I have nothing to be nervous about, but I can’t help it. He’s in the bathroom, taking a shower. I would’ve joined him, but my nerves are keeping me from doing anything productive in there. Besides, this past week we’ve christened every surface both here in his apartment and at my house. I’m certainly not complaining, but I can’t help but think that he’s avoiding what we talked about last weekend. I know it was a big step for him, so I haven’t mentioned it again. Yet.

 

The Marimba tone from my phone breaks my reverie, and the screen shows a number I don’t recognize. Normally I don’t answer those calls, but I’m waiting for the hotel in D.C. to confirm our reservation.

 

“Hello?”

 

No one answers, but the line is open. I can hear there’s someone on the other end.

 

“Hello?” I say again.

 

“Katniss?” I know _that_ voice.

 

“Delly?”

 

“Hi,” she says tentatively. “I hope I’m not bothering you.”

 

I’m not sure how I should respond. She’s not on the list of my favorite people, and I have no desire to talk to her. “It’s okay.”

 

“I just wanted to say that I’m sorry for what I said. About me and Peeta, I mean.” Her voice is shaky; I don’t know if she’s on the verge of crying or only nervous. Maybe both.

 

“Exactly _what_ are you sorry about?” I may sound cynical, but I need to know if she’s sorry for what she said or for Peeta finding out.

 

I hear her inhale and exhale. “I know that what I said sounded like there was more between Peeta and me then there was. And I’m sorry for making you believe that.” She sounds sincere. Maybe I should let her off the hook. She _sounds_ genuinely sorry, at least.

 

“Have you talked to Peeta?” He hasn’t mentioned it, so I assume she hasn’t.

 

“Not really. He’s constantly giving me the cold shoulder. He won’t even look at me.” She sounds dispirited. _For good reason._

 

“Yeah, he was pretty hurt, I’m not gonna lie.” I know she probably doesn’t want to hear it, but I think she needs to know that he wasn’t only angry, but hurt too.

 

“Do you think… Do you think _you_ could talk to him?”

 

“I don’t know. I don’t want to get stuck in the middle of this.” I don’t want to be the mediator here. If Peeta doesn’t want to forgive her that’s his prerogative. He’s been betrayed more than once, and if he doesn’t want to risk getting hurt by her again, I wouldn’t blame him.

 

“Could you at least wish him a happy birthday from me?”

 

I don’t hear the water running anymore, and I don’t want Peeta walking in here and getting the wrong idea. “Yeah, I have to go.” I end the call before she has a chance to respond.

 

“Who were you talking to?” I whip my head around and see Peeta entering the bedroom, a towel hanging low on his hips. I consider shrugging his question off, but I have to be honest with him.

 

“It was… Delly.” He stops dead in his tracks on his way to the drawer.

 

“What did she want?” He tries to sound indifferent, but the way his shoulders tense up gives him away.

 

“She apologized.”

 

He straightens his back and seems to ponder it over. “Good.” Then he starts going through his drawers.

 

I walk over to him, hugging him from behind and resting my head on his back. He’s still wet from his shower, and the water is probably washing away my make-up, but I don’t care. I can reapply it later.

 

“She wished you a happy birthday,” I say against his skin. He scoffs and continues going through his clothes. “She seemed remorseful.”

 

“Yeah? She should have thought about that before she started spreading lies,” he says in mild annoyance, walking to the bed where his shirt lies. He slumps down next to it, and I approach him, putting my hands in his hair and pressing his forehead gently to my stomach.

 

“I’m not telling you what to do, Peeta. But I don’t think you should hold on to that anger.”

 

“You sound experienced,” he states.

 

“Yeah. Do you know how long I hated my mother?” He doesn’t answer, only raises his head to look me in the eyes, giving me a quizzical look. “After Prim died, she blamed me for her death, thinking that since she couldn’t be there to emotionally support us, that task fell on me. And I failed.”

 

“And now?”

 

“I haven’t forgiven her, but everyone copes differently with loss. Our relationship is down the drain, but I don’t want to spend more energy on her than I have to. Especially when I can spend it on someone else.” I try to give him a reassuring smile. “Hear her out, then decide how to handle it? Not for her sake, but for your own.”

 

“Maybe you’re right.” He stands up to give me a kiss on the lips. “I’ll think about it okay?”

 

“That’s all I ask.”

 

“But let’s not focus on Delly right now. It _is_ my birthday after all,” he says with a playful grin, leaning in for another kiss.

 

But I pull my head back, denying him the kiss. “You mean to tell me that your birthday blowjob this morning wasn’t enough for you?” I try to sound offended, but I’m probably returning his wicked smile.

 

“Oh, it was good, alright.” He nibbles my earlobe, sending a heat wave through my entire body. “But you’ve worked up my appetite.” It takes every ounce of willpower in me to back away from him. “We have to leave like...” I check my wristwatch. “Like _now_ , if we’re not going to be late.” If we had the time I would gladly let him take me right here, right now.

 

Peeta takes my arm and looks at my watch, letting out a disappointed sigh. “You’re right.”

 

“Are you sure it’s okay to bring Sanders?” I’ve already asked a dozen times, but it feels weird bringing a dog the first time you’re at someone’s house.

 

“Yes. Aaron and Rye have already met him, and Dad loves dogs.”

 

“And your Mom?”

 

“She’ll cope.” He plants a kiss on the tip of my nose. “I’ll handle it. I promise.”

 

Peeta’s parents live in the suburbs in a wealthy community, and the drive there takes about twenty minutes. We take my car, but since Peeta knows the way to their place, he drives. When we’re almost there, Peeta turns down the volume on the radio.

 

“Listen. Mom doesn’t know about… about what happened,” he almost whispers. I wasn’t planning to talk about it, but I’m glad he gave me a heads-up.

 

“Okay. But the rest of your family does?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“How come you didn’t tell her?” I hope he doesn’t think I’m snooping.

 

His grip on the steering wheel tightens, turning his knuckles white. “She’s not the most... approachable person. She really liked Cashmere, so when we broke up she assumed I had done something wrong. And if she found out about _this_ , I know she’d find a way to blame me for it.”

 

“She doesn’t seem very supportive.”

 

“She’s not,” he deadpans, like he’s accepted it a long time ago.

 

“Why?”

 

He lets out a humorless laugh. “Rye is _one_ year older than me. Do you really think I was planned?” He looks at me briefly, then back to the road. “I’m a missed pill, a broken condom, whatever they were using. I’m an accident, an inconvenience at best.”

 

How can he think of himself like that? How has his mother managed to destroy the self-worth of a person who can light up the entire room simply by being there? I _already_ don’t like the woman.

 

“It doesn’t matter whether you were planned. A parent should always love and protect their children, no matter what.” I don’t realize what I said until the words are out. Peeta doesn’t say anything at first, keeping his eyes on the road, but I know I hit a sensitive spot. He already thinks he failed as a parent by not being able to protect Charlie, and now I just implied that I think so too. _Smooth._ I don’t know how to follow up on that without making it worse so I stay silent.

 

After a couple of seconds Peeta breaks the awkward silence.

 

“I think she loves me. I just don’t think she _likes_ me very much.” His tone is dejected, like he’s convinced himself that he doesn’t care. But I guess it’s ingrained in us to want our parents’ approval. “We’re here,” he announces before I have the chance to respond. We pull up the driveway to an enormous house; it could easily accommodate four of my own. The walls are made some dark brown wood with the boards running vertically, and some of the windows go all the way from the floor to the ceiling.

 

I stare at it in awe as Peeta exits the car and walks around the back to let Sanders out. He opens the passenger door. “You wanna go inside or…?” He extends his hand for me to take, and he holds it as we enter the house, Sanders trailing behind us.

 

“Peeta!” A man somewhere in his fifties pokes his head through a door opening, and there’s no question that it’s Peeta’s dad. They have the exact same jaw and nose. “Hold on.”

 

Peeta offers to take my coat, and I don’t miss how his fingers trace my arms as he slides it off me. His dad returns with a woman by her side, which I assume must be his mother. The resemblance isn’t as striking as it is with his dad, but I can see similarities he shares with her too; her eyes are practically identical to Peeta’s.

 

“Katniss, I presume?” Mr. Mellark asks with a heart-warming smile I recognize. I’ve seen the same one on Peeta so many times.

 

I hold out my hand. “Yes, it’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Mellark.” _Fuck. Can I sound anymore generic?_

 

He takes it and gives me a firm shake. “Please. Mr. Mellark is my father,” he jokes. “I’m Marcus. And this is my wife Connie.”

 

“It’s very nice to meet you too, Mrs. Mellark.”

 

“Yes, it is,” she responds curtly, and I feel like she’s assessing me, scrutinizing every inch. It’s a little uncomfortable, to say the least.

 

“I know Katniss is hard to take your eyes off, but I can’t help feeling a little left out here,” Peeta says, managing to shift his mother’s attention from me to him. _Thank you._

 

“I’m sorry, son. But you’ve got such a lovely girl here, that you kind of fade in comparison,” Marcus winks, but immediately embraces Peeta. “Happy birthday.”

 

“Thanks, Dad.”

 

When they part, Mrs. Mellark gives Peeta a kiss on the cheek and also wishes him a happy birthday. No one seems to have noticed Sanders sitting by the door behind me.

 

“This is Sanders,” I announce, moving aside. At the sound of his name his head perks up, and he starts wagging his tail. “He’s very calm, so you’ll hardly notice him,” I try to to assure them, still feeling a little awkward bringing him here, despite Peeta’s assurances.

 

Mr. Mellark drops down to greet Sanders, and I immediately notice his uncanny resemblance to his son. Peeta’s appearance is a mixture of both his parents, but his mannerisms and posture are solely his dad’s. I’m not sure how long we stand there, but suddenly the door opens behind us, revealing Peeta’s brothers.

 

“You are aware that this is a pretty big house, right?” Rye says. “Everyone doesn’t have to stand right inside the door.”

 

“Johanna isn’t coming?” Peeta asks Aaron, ignoring Rye’s comment.

 

“No, she had to work,” Aaron replies quietly. He keeps his eyes downcast, making me doubt he’s telling the whole truth.

 

“Okay.” Peeta looks disappointed, but Mrs. Mellark seems pleased. I haven’t met either of them for an extended period of time, but I doubt Johanna and Peeta’s mom would get along.

 

The dinner runs fairly smoothly. Apparently Peeta’s baking skills come from his father, but his talent for cooking is his mother’s doing.

 

“So.” Aaron begins. “Is there a reason that Sanders is following Peeta’s every move?”

 

I try to stifle a laugh, remembering the conversation Peeta and I had about this.“Yeah. Apparently Peeta ‘drops’ a lot of food while he cooks.”

 

“I figured it was something like that,” Aaron smirks, throwing Peeta a look.

 

“Hey. Give me some credit,” Peeta defends himself.

 

Mrs. Mellark has been very quiet during the meal. I don’t know her, so maybe she’s always that way. “If you ever have kids, Peeta, you’re gonna spoil them rotten.”

 

Her comment is innocent, considering that she doesn’t know, but to Peeta, it’s venom.

 

“Probably,” he mutters. It seems like neither of us knows what to say or do, but Mrs. Mellark doesn’t notice her son’s inner turmoil.

 

“I think we’re ready for some cake,” Mr. Mellark announces, clumsily trying to smooth things over.

 

“I’ll get it,” Peeta offers, quickly standing up.

 

I grab his hand before he leaves. “Let me help you.”

 

He nods, and we grab the plates from the table, walking to the kitchen. It’s the longest walk I’ve ever taken, but fortunately, the kitchen is in another part of the house, so they can’t see or hear us from the dining room. As soon as I’ve dropped the plates in the sink I walk up to Peeta. He’s standing with his back to me, clutching the backside of a chair.

 

I don’t know how to handle this, so I don’t say anything. I just hold him, hugging him, trying to convey with my embrace that I’ll always be here for him when he needs it. We stand like that for a while, and his grip on the chair loosens as he lets out a long breath.

 

“Thank you,” he says, turning around and putting his hands on my face.

 

“For what?”

 

“For being here,” he whispers, bringing our lips together. I put my hands on his arms, eagerly returning the kiss as his tongue brushes against mine. Reluctantly, I pull away before it gets too heated.

 

“I think we have to go back before they start to think we’re doing something else in here.”

 

At this, the corners of his mouth turn up a little. “You’re right. Rye would never let me live that one down.”

 

When we return with the cake, everyone except Mrs. Mellark looks tentatively to Peeta, like he’s a ticking bomb. He doesn’t seem to notice, putting the cake in the middle of the table.

 

“Looks good, Dad.”

 

“Thank you.” A look of relief settles on his face. “Still not as good as yours, though.”

 

“I know,” Peeta winks.

 

“Peeta, don’t brag,” Mrs. Mellark scolds him. I want to give her a piece of my mind, but I don’t want to make a scene here, so I settle for a glare her way. Unfortunately, I don’t think she notices.

 

“It’s a joke, Mom,” Rye responds. “You know—humor? You should try it sometime.”

 

Instead of answering, Mrs. Mellark purses her lips, and I don’t miss the subtle nod that Peeta gives Rye. After that the mood around the table feels a little lighter, but Mrs. Mellark occasionally throws crude and unnecessary remarks— _I don’t think painting is a real career choice_ or _why don’t you get car of your own, Peeta?_ But everyone seems used to it, and no one calls her out on it.

 

“Katniss, when will you finish your degree?” Mr. Mellark asks.

 

“I’ll defend my licentiate thesis in a couple of months, and after that it’s probably about another two more years.”

 

“Katniss is really smart,” Peeta says, squeezing my hand under the table, and I feel a blush creeping up my neck.

 

“Peeta, do you know what Cashmere does nowadays?” Mrs. Mellark chimes in. His hand, still over mine, goes still at her question.

 

“No.”

 

“Why not?” she questions.

 

“It’s been a while since we broke up, Mom,” he sighs, not raising his eyes from the plate in front of him.

 

She slowly shakes her head. “I don’t understand why you let her go.”

 

Peeta sighs again, loudly, as if to make a point. It’s obvious that it’s not the first time she’s made this comment. To be honest, I can’t really blame her; Cashmere is probably a way better catch than I am, and Mrs. Mellark doesn’t know what transpired between her and Peeta.

 

“Connie,” Mr. Mellark says, putting his hand over hers and giving her a knowing look.

 

“Fine,” she says, sounding exasperated. “I just don’t understand.”

 

“Do you really want to know?” Peeta erupts. “Do you really want to know why?”

 

“Yes. Yes, I do.”

 

“Okay, here’s the truth.” He stands up, as if getting ready to leave. “She’s a lying, manipulative bitch. _That’s_ why I don’t talk to her anymore.”

 

Peeta’s mom just stares at him, apparently in shock.

 

But Peeta continues. “And I don’t appreciate you talking like Cashmere is the best thing that ever happened to me when Katniss is here, proving you wrong.”

 

Everyone around the table is silent; not even Rye says anything.

 

“Peeta, I only have your best interests at heart.”

 

At this, I cannot sit idle anymore. “You do?” I challenge her.

 

“I don’t think this is any of your business, Katniss.” She says my name with disdain in her voice.

 

“I think it is,” I counter. “I’m sorry, but how can you put down your own son like that?” All eyes are on me, which was not what I had intended. But the insults she’s thrown Peeta’s way this entire evening put me completely off, and I can’t help myself. “He’s the most kindhearted man I have _ever_ met, and everything that’s come out of your mouth tonight has been nothing but veiled insults. It’s his birthday, for fuck’s sake.” I probably should have left the cursing out, but this woman infuriates me.

 

Peeta grabs my hand and pulls me to the front door.

 

“I’m sorry, Peeta. I didn’t mean to ruin your birthday like this,” I say to him, but I don’t know if it helps. His look is fierce, and I think I see anger behind those stunning blue eyes. I have accused his mother of ruining his birthday, but I think I had equal part in it.

 

“Let’s just leave,” he says. “Come on, Sanders.”

 

The ride back is strained. I don’t even know if he’s planning on dropping me off at home, or if we’re going back to his place instead. He grips the wheel like his life depends on it, and he doesn’t speak until he’s parked the car.

 

“I’m sorry. I’m not angry. It’s just… It’s so hard to talk about, and I almost told her the truth back there. I needed to leave.”

 

I put my hand on one of his. “It’s okay.” I can’t imagine what he’s going through, not wanting to tell his mother the truth but still wanting to shut her up.

 

“No, it’s not. You deserve more than this. You deserve more than _me_.”

 

“That’s not true, Peeta, and you know it. I wouldn’t be with you if I didn’t want to.”

 

“Maybe you’re right,” he whispers, laying his head against the headrest for a second before exiting the car.

 

We walk silently up to his apartment, and as soon as we step inside, closing the door behind us, he gives me a long, searing kiss.

 

“I, ah...” he hesitates. “You can go to bed. I just need some time. Is that okay?” he asks carefully.

 

“Do you want to be alone? I can leave if...”

 

“No, I want you to stay,” he interrupts me, sliding his thumb across my cheek.

 

“Okay, I’ll stay.”

 

“Thank you.” He takes off his coat, hanging it on one of the hangers by the door. “No one has ever stood up for me like that.” He turns around, facing me. “I just want you to know how much I appreciate that,” he says sincerely.

 

Instead of answering I plant a kiss on his lips, hoping it will convey the depth of my feelings. Feelings I can’t voice just yet.

 

* * *

 

I can’t sleep. I’m tossing and turning in a lame attempt to cool down. But I know that the only thing that will help me sleep is Peeta. He’s still in his studio; he locked himself in there not long after we came back. It’s no use trying to sleep, so I decide to join him—if he’ll allow it.

 

There’s some light shining through beneath the door, so I gently knock.

 

“Peeta?” He doesn’t answer, so I open it. He’s apparently lost in thought, because he doesn’t notice me at first. “Peeta?” I repeat. This catches his attention. He’s wearing his glasses and they frame his face perfectly.

 

“Hey. Can’t sleep?”

 

“No, I’m lonely.”

 

The corners of his mouth reveal the hint of a smile, but that’s it.

 

“What are you painting?”

 

“Nothing in particular. I’m just doodling, really.” I don’t believe that for a second. Peeta’s idea of ‘doodling’ is probably the same as anyone else’s best work.

 

“Can you… Can you teach me?” I ask, hoping I’m not intruding on his privacy.

 

“Yeah, sure. Come here.” I instantly make my way to him, sitting on his lap. He puts a blank canvas on the easel and hands me the brush, holding my hand in his.

 

“Okay, how do I do this?”

 

“Close your eyes. Just feel. And let your hands do the talking.”

 

This is such an intimate moment. Peeta’s letting me in his most personal space, the medium in which he expresses himself, and I feel privileged that he’s showing this to _me_.

 

I do as he says, and he guides my hand up and down, round in circles and abrupt edges. The warmth of his hands and body spreads through me and at this moment, right now, I’m completely content.

 

“Okay. Open your eyes,” he says tentatively.

 

What I see on the canvas would have caused me to bolt for the door immediately if it hadn’t been drawn by Peeta’s hand. It’s the most romantic display of emotion I’ve ever seen. I don’t know how I’m supposed to respond, but I know he wouldn’t have done this if he didn’t mean it.

 

There’s no picture. Only words:

 

_I love you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I appreciate your feedback so please leave a comment or drop me a line on tumblr. I'm maxwellandlovelace.


	13. XII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eternal gratitude to papofglencoe for betaing this story. Thanks to you, it's better <3

He loves me. _Peeta loves me._ I keep staring at the canvas, afraid that the words will disappear if I take my eyes off them. I know that I love him too, but it’s one thing to feel it and another to say it out loud. You can’t take it back. Apart from my family, I’ve never said it to anyone before. I was together with Darius for a year, but I never said it to him—nor did I feel for him what I do for Peeta.

 

To care about someone that deeply makes you vulnerable, putting yourself out there. And I don’t know if I’d survive losing him.

 

“You don’t have to say anything.” Peeta’s voice brings me back to reality, reminding me that I haven’t said a word since he revealed the painting. I turn my head to him, looking him in the eyes. I _want_ to tell him, but my mouth can’t seem to form the words. I kiss him full on the mouth, connecting our lips. He opens his mouth, and I trace my tongue against his, trying to let him know that his feelings don’t scare me.

 

It _should_ terrify me. Everyone I’ve ever loved has left me, one way or another. But Peeta’s had his heart shattered more than once, and in a way I don’t think I can ever imagine. And still, he’s brave enough to offer it to me. If he can do it, so can I. So when our kiss ends I dip the brush in paint, adding one more word: _too_.

 

“Really?” Peeta asks in disbelief.

 

I don’t trust my voice so I just nod, and I can tell he’s shocked, his mouth slightly open.

 

“Are you surprised?” I ask, sliding off his glasses and putting them on the table.

 

“Yeah. Well, sort of,” he says, unable to keep the grin off his face.

 

“What do you mean?” I put the brush in a glass of water next to his glasses and lock my arms around his neck.

 

“I didn’t think you’d say it back.”

 

“Technically, I didn’t say it,” I smirk.

 

He plants a kiss on my nose. “ _Technically_ , neither did I. But I know that you’re not comfortable talking about your feelings.” He pauses. ” I just don’t want you to feel obligated,” he shrugs.

 

It’s astonishing how well he knows me after the relatively short time we’ve been together. It’s one of his greatest qualities; reading people and always knowing exactly what to say or do to put them at ease. Especially me.

 

“I don’t. But you’re right. I’m much better at showing my feelings than talking about them.”

 

“Then by all means.” He holds out both of his hands. “Feel free to show me,” he smiles. I’m so grateful to him for always knowing how to take the pressure off things. This situation, us revealing the depth of our feelings to each other, could have gotten emotionally heavy. And that’s not something I’m particularly comfortable with, even with Peeta. And he understands that and respects it.

 

I release my hold on him, swatting his arm. “Don’t get cocky,” I scold him. “Or you might not get any tonight.”

 

“You’re going to deny me birthday sex?” He says it like he takes it for granted, but I know he doesn’t.

 

I pretend to ponder it over. “No. But we have to hurry. It’s almost midnight.”

 

At this, he stands up, hoisting me over his shoulder like a sack of flour.

 

“Peeta!” I yelp. “Put me down,” I demand, punching his back.

 

“No can do,” he answers, carrying me into his bedroom. He lowers me down on the bed and wastes no time, covering my neck in open-mouthed kisses. Closing my eyes, I tilt my head to the side and revel in his tongue on my skin. It feels different. I don’t know why; maybe it’s the fact that I know now that he’s as invested in this relationship as I am, and it makes him even sexier.

 

I grab the collar of his shirt and drag his face to mine. He follows eagerly and captures my lips in his as his hand finds its way under the huge T-shirt I’m wearing. When his fingers trace the outline of my panties I let out a groan in his mouth, instinctively bucking my hips.

 

It’s dark in here, so I can’t see his expression, but I can feel his smile as he breaks the kiss. The street lights allow me to see his silhouette and he removes his tie as he pulls away from me. I expect him to throw it on the floor, but he doesn’t. Instead he unties the knot and drags the silk fabric up my legs, causing me to shiver; it tickles a little, but it’s extremely exhilarating. My body is on fire, and the cool textile is a pleasant contrast.

 

He grabs one of my arms, putting it on the pillow above my head. When he does the same with the other, he secures my hands, carefully looping his tie around my wrists. “Is this okay?” he asks, his voice dark, but warm.

 

I’m used to always being in control. But Peeta makes me want to surrender to him, letting him be in charge. “Yes,” I whisper. “I trust you.”

 

Without another word he puts his lips on mine, swiping his tongue along the seam of my mouth. He gently takes my bottom lip between his teeth, sucking it, and I have to grab the headboard to keep myself from moving my hands from where Peeta wants them. When his tongue reaches my throat I’m pretty sure that he can feel how fast my heart is beating. He lets out a groan, and I’m feeling impatient. I want to feel more of him. I _need_ him.

 

I have to squeeze my thighs together to relieve some tension. Apparently Peeta notices because he stops showering my neck in kisses and drags my T-shirt up all the way to my chin, exposing my breasts. If my nipples weren’t hard already, the sound and feel of Peeta’s heavy breathing would certainly do the trick. He swirls his tongue around both of my breasts but doesn’t linger for long. One of his hands dips beneath my panties, and he easily finds my clit and my underwear are soon discarded.

 

“Fuck, Peeta… That feels…” I let out, but I can’t bring myself to finish the sentence.

 

“You’re so wet,” he says huskily. “Tell me how it feels.”

 

“I-I can’t…” I gasp, bucking my hips to spur him on. At this, he pushes a finger inside and then quickly adds another. They feel amazing; he knows exactly how I want it.

 

“Yes, you can. You can do anything.” He sounds out of breath, like he’s as aroused as I am. His thumb caresses my clit as he fucks me with his fingers. My hips move at their own accord, meeting every movement of his hands. The silk material of his tie is soft on my wrists, adding to the adrenaline pumping through my veins.

 

“It feels… right,” are all the words I can form before he hits that spot that he knows will soon send me over the edge, causing me to moan his name.

 

“In what way?”

 

“Because… Because it’s you.”

 

That’s the last coherent thought in my head. After that, everything I see and feel is Peeta. His hand on my breast. His fingers inside me. His tongue on my clit. Every fiber of my body is on edge; everything he touches sends waves of pleasure through every limb, out to my fingertips and making my toes curl.

 

My grip on the headboard tightens as Peeta makes a humming sound, creating vibrations as I reach the point of no return and the words spill from my mouth without my control. “I love you. I love you. I love you.”

 

When the waves of my orgasm subside, I’m left a pool of lifeless limbs. Every bit of energy has left me, and I’m still holding my hands above my head, too tired to move them. Peeta climbs up my body, giving the tip of my nose a kiss.

 

“That was the best birthday present ever,” he says, and his smile is so genuine I can’t help but bring my arms over his head, pulling him to me and pushing my tongue into his mouth. He responds with eagerness, pressing me into the mattress and letting me feel his erection through his boxers. I want to reach down and feel him, but my hands are literally tied. Instead I buck my hips, letting him know that I want to feel more of him.

 

“Turn over,” he instructs as our lips part. I’m still at his mercy, so I follow his directive. He reaches over my arms, and I think he’s going to untie me. “I’m not done with you yet,” he growls in my ear. Loosening the knot slightly, he releases one of the ends and ties it to one of the bars on the headboard. “Still trust me?”

 

“Yes,” I croak.

 

“Good.”

 

His fingers are on my waist, pulling my hips up, and I lean on my elbows. This position leaves me fully exposed to him, and my tied hands make me even more vulnerable. But I trust Peeta. His touch is making me dripping wet, and I don’t know how long I can wait to have him inside me. But he keeps me waiting a little while longer. He slides his hands along my back to my neck, making sure to stroke the spot below my ear that always makes me shiver.

 

“You’re perfect, Katniss,” he grunts, my name on his lips making me more desperate for his cock. “I love you so much.”

 

His fingers find their way to my wet folds but are soon replaced with his tongue, grazing my entrance and then my clit.

 

“You taste so fucking good, Katniss.” There it is again, that dark, sultry voice that makes my knees weak. I’m surprised I can remain in this position.

 

“Peeta,” I whimper. “Let me feel you.”

 

At this, he reaches over to the drawer, quickly finding a condom. I hear the telltale tearing of the wrapper before I feel him, teasing my entrance and then my clit. But he seems as eager as I am, and it’s only a couple of seconds of this before he takes a hold of my hips again and fills me. We moan in unison, and my walls contract around him. This is my favorite position because it allows him to hit so deep. Peeta prefers us facing each other, so I know this is for my benefit.

 

Then he starts to move, slowly at first, almost pulling out completely before entering me again. For every time he does this, the pressure builds more and more, and I’m surprised how quickly he can send me toward the edge again. I start to push my ass against his groin, urging him to go faster.

 

This seems to spur him on, pulling my hips toward him faster. At this time I usually move my hand down between my legs to bring myself even closer. But both my hands are tied to the bed, keeping me from doing so. I think this was Peeta’s plan all along, knowing that the frustration of not being able to relieve some tension would leave me more eager for his touch.

 

But he doesn’t make me wait long. I think he senses my predicament because he leans forward, cupping one of my breasts and squeezing it before moving his hand to my clit.

 

“Oh my god!” I exclaim at the sensation. It’s fogging my mind, disintegrating my brain into the tiniest parts. “I’m so close,” I pant.

 

“Me too.”

 

His thrusts are harder. Deeper. Causing the bed to slam against the wall with every one of his movements. I’m sure his neighbors can hear what we’re doing, but I don’t fucking care. Every motion pushes me closer. Every flick of his finger. The feeling of his cock moving against my walls. I clench around him, and that is it for me.

 

“Come with me, Peeta” I practically scream as he fucks me closer to my release.

 

“I’ll do anything for you,” he answers, his voice hoarse.

 

He plunges into me with force I didn’t even know he had as we feed each other’s orgasms. His twitching inside me fuels my pleasure, and I contract around him, draining him of every drop as he spills into the condom.

 

We stay like that, exhausted and catching our breaths until he softens and slips out. He quickly throws the condom in the trash bin next to the bed and turns back to me, a sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead.

 

“If I didn’t know any better, I would’ve thought it was _my_ birthday.” This puts a smile on his face, and he unties me from the headboard.

 

“Don’t you see, Katniss? The sounds you make… Knowing how much you enjoy it. It drives me wild. And that’s what I want.” A smile spreads on his lips. “And the tie only made it hotter.” He knows what he wants and he’s not afraid to say it. I admire that about him, because I don’t know if I would have the courage to ask him to tie me up, let alone admit how much it turned me on.

 

A smile creeps up my face and a heat spreads across my neck. I _did_ love it. “Maybe,” I smirk.

 

He doesn’t press the issue, instead lying on his back and allowing me to rest on his chest. He puts his arm around me, and I think it’s only seconds before we both fall asleep.

 

* * *

 

“Katniss, I’m h… Oh, hey, buddy,” Peeta calls, entering the house. When Sanders heard his footsteps on the porch he immediately barged for the door to greet him.

 

“Hey, I’m in the kitchen.”

 

Both Peeta and Sanders come into the kitchen, and it’s only seconds before a set of warm arms encircles me from behind, hands locking around my waist. Peeta kisses the side my neck, and I lean against his solid frame, letting out a sigh. I’ve been swamped at work the last couple of days, preparing for the conference, so we haven’t spent that much time together. I’ve missed him.

 

“Are you cooking? I thought that was my job,” he says, his mouth only inches from my skin.

 

I’ve been feeling guilty for always letting him cook. I know he enjoys it, but I want to contribute a little too. Besides, I like doing things for him. “Yeah. My dog is getting fat.”

 

He chuckles behind me. “And that’s supposed to be my fault?”

 

I turn around, meeting his eyes. “Yes,” I try to scold him, but I think he sees right through it. “There’s some wine on the counter if you want.”

 

“Sure, thanks.”

 

He fills up two glasses, putting one of them next to me, and stands by the fridge, observing me. His cooking skills are far superior to mine, but he doesn’t interfere. I don’t miss the smile dancing on his lips the entire time.

 

“How come you’re in such a good mood?” I finally ask.

 

“I, ah… I took your advice.”

 

“About?”

 

“I talked to Delly.”

 

At the sound of her name my heart drops. I know I wanted him to talk to her, but he doesn’t have to be so fucking happy about it.

 

“And?”

 

“You were right. It felt so good to let go of that anger.” He _does_ sound relieved.

 

“So everything is all rainbows and unicorns between you two again?” I try not to sound bitter, but I can’t help it.

 

“She apologized. It’s going to take some time, but I agreed to give her the chance to rebuild her trust.” He’s such a forgiving man, giving everyone the benefit of the doubt and always seeing the best in others. It’s only one of the reasons that I love him. And he loves me. _Me._

 

“You’re a way better person than I am, Peeta.”

 

We don’t talk about Delly more that night. I’m not complaining. We’re a little tipsy when we go to bed; or _I’m_ a little tipsy. Peeta’s getting up early tomorrow. They’re short on staff at his father’s bakery so he’s helping them out. The room is swaying a little, and I know it’s the alcohol, but it doesn’t make it easier to walk, so I steady myself on Peeta as we walk together to my bedroom.

 

“Peeta?” I ask, as soon as we’re lying down, his fingers moving up and down my arm.

 

“Hmm?”

 

“What did you mean when you said you didn’t think I was gonna say it back? And that you were _sort of_ surprised?” I don’t know if I’m making any sense, and I know I wouldn’t dare to ask this if I was completely sober.

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“On your birthday. Why were you only ‘sort of’ surprised?”

 

“Well.” He hesitates, as if contemplating how to put it. “I was already pretty sure I knew how you felt,” he says sheepishly.

 

“How?”

 

He hesitates before answering. “You talk in your sleep.”

 

I snort. “I do no such thing.”

 

“Yes, you do.”

 

“Well, you snore,” I say, as if that somehow make my sleep-talking less true.

 

“Yeah, I can’t stand hearing you jabbering all the time,” he jokes.

 

“You’re a dork,” I say, punching him lightly on his arm.

 

“Yeah, get used to it,” he says, planting a kiss on my cheek.

 

“I already have,” I sigh, feeling my eyelids droop.

 

I sleep through the entire night, and when I wake up, Peeta’s gone. I knew he would be leaving early, but I still miss him. I spare a glance at the clock. 8:12 a.m. His side of the bed is cold; he probably left a couple of hours ago.

 

I reach my arm out, dragging my hand through the sheets where he usually sleeps. I can’t believe I was ever content with sleeping in this bed alone. Now that I know what it’s like with Peeta, I don’t want to get used to anything else, ever again.

 

Reluctantly, I push my feet out from under the warmth of the covers, shoving them into my slippers, and putting on a robe. Sanders is lying next to the couch in the living room, and his head perks up as I enter.

 

“Morning,” I yawn. He puts his head back down and continues his nap.

 

I’ve started the kettle when I spot the note on the kitchen table.

 

_There are pancakes in the fridge. I get off around noon. Lunch? - P_

 

He could have asked me this before he left or just sent me a text. But Peeta is a romantic, and of course he leaves a handwritten note. I thought I would find stuff like this cheesy, but it’s endearing.

 

I instantly open the refrigerator and find the stack of goodies. _When did he have time to make these?_ I really don’t care; I’m just grateful he did. I pop them into the microwave and manage to find some blueberry jam too. I’m usually not very hungry this early, but the prospect of Peeta’s pancakes has spiked my appetite, and I scarf them down in no time.

 

I can’t wait until lunch. I want to see him now.

 

I leave Sanders at home, knowing that he’s not allowed inside the bakery. The ride over there is fairly short and only takes ten minutes. The bell above the door signals my arrival, and I’m met with Rye’s blue stare from behind the counter. I haven’t seen him or any of Peeta’s family since his birthday. Maybe coming here wasn’t such a good idea; they probably hate my guts.

 

“Well, look what the cat dragged in,” he jokes, and I’m relieved at least one of Peeta’s brothers doesn’t detest me.

 

“How original,” I counter, but return his smile.

 

“I’m not known for my silver tongue. I’ve got other qualities.” He pauses. “They also involve tongues, though.”

 

I hold up my hands. “Please, spare me the details.”

 

“Fine, you don’t know what you’re missing.”

 

Another blond head peeks through the door opening behind him.

 

“I do, and I promise you, ignorance is bliss,” Peeta says, smirking at Rye as he comes out from the kitchen, his arms covered in flour. Then he turns to me, a heart-melting smile spreading on his face. “Hey.”

 

“Hey.”

 

No one says anything for a couple of seconds.

 

“Please chatterboxes, let _me_ get a word in,” Rye finally says.

 

“Why don’t you take the hint and leave?” Peeta quickly responds.

 

“Hey man, someone’s gotta be at the front. I can’t leave.”

 

Peeta sighs. “Fine. Katniss, you want to come in here?”

 

“Yeah, sure.” I walk around the counter, and Peeta gives me a kiss on the cheek, dusting off some of the flour from his hands before putting a hand on the small of my back. I immediately spot Peeta’s dad pulling what I believe are cheese buns out of the oven.

 

“Hey, Katniss,” he says the second he notices me.

 

“Hey, Mr. Mellark.”

 

“I’m gonna take a break,” Peeta says. “It’s pretty quiet in the front so…”

 

“It’s fine, Peeta,” Mr. Mellark cuts him off. “I’m just grateful you could come in at all.”

 

“Okay.” We walk through the kitchen and into a small office. As soon as Peeta closes the door behind us I push him against it, pressing my lips to his. My tongue easily finds his as I put my hands on his chest. His hands travel up my arms, grabbing my shoulders, deepening the kiss. After a couple of seconds we break apart.

 

“What was that for?” he asks, catching his breath.

 

“That was for the pancakes.”

 

“If I’d known _that_ I would’ve made a habit of making you pancakes every day.” I see the wheels turning in his head.

 

“Seriously, Peeta, when did you have time to make those?”

 

“I had some time to spare,” he answers sheepishly.

 

“If you start working at 5 a.m. you don’t have time to spare.”

 

“It’s psychological. Every time I know I have to get up early I always wake up before the alarm goes off. What better way to spend the extra time than to spoil you,” he says, giving me a peck on the nose.

 

“Really? Good to know. Then I think I’m going to talk to your dad to let him know that whenever he needs help, you should be the first one he calls.”

 

“Yeah, you do that and maybe I’ll ‘accidentally’ set your alarm too,” he smiles. “Not that I’m complaining, but why are you here?” He looks at his wristwatch. “Didn’t you see my note?”

 

“Yes, but I couldn’t wait until noon,” I tell him, a heat spreading on my cheeks.

 

“I wish I could leave, but I promised Dad I’d help him with a cake that has to be finished today.”

 

“I didn’t mean to drag you out of here. I just wanted to see you.”

 

He pulls me in for another kiss, and I’m happy to oblige. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of kissing Peeta.

 

“You’re welcome to stay until I get off if you don’t have other stuff to do,” he offers when we break apart.

 

“Yeah, sure.”

 

I find a seat in the back of the bakery, and I very much enjoy observing Peeta and his dad frost a cake. It looks like they’ve been doing this forever. They seem so in sync, always knowing what the other is doing and never once breaking the other one’s stride. It looks like they’ve never done anything else.

 

When they’re finished we leave to have lunch at a place not far from the bakery.

 

“This is _not_ carbonara,” Peeta says as soon as the food arrives.

 

“Then why do you always insist on ordering it? You always get disappointed.” I can’t tell the difference and I like it. “What is it this time?” I sigh.

 

“There’s not supposed to be any cream in it. That’s just faking it.”

 

“You must be the most annoying restaurant customer _ever_.” Aaron was right. Don’t mess with Peeta and his pasta.

 

“I don’t think so. Have you ever seen me send anything back?” He’s right. He’s never sent anything back, despite the disappointment. If I were as meticulous as he was about something I’d probably already have gained myself a reputation in this town. If I’m disappointed, I let people know. But Peeta’s not like that; he’d rather eat fake-carbonara than hurt anyone’s feelings.

 

We finish our meals in silence, only briefly talking about casual stuff. As soon as the waiter leaves with our empty plates, Peeta puts his hand over mine. I try to meet his gaze, but his eyes are locked to our hands; he’s nervous, and it’s rubbing off.

 

“What is it, Peeta?” I ask, but I’m terrified of the answer.

 

“It’s…” He drags his other hand through his hair. “Shit, I don’t know how to put this. It’s about the trip.”

 

He’s changed his mind. He doesn’t want to go. “It’s fine. You don’t have to come,” I say curtly, trying to mask the disappointment.

 

“What? No, of course I’m coming,” he immediately responds, putting his other arm on the table and enveloping my hand in both of his. “I wanted to talk about… I won’t do it if you don’t want me to… I just think it might be good to…”

 

“Peeta,” I stop him. “What are you talking about?”

 

He takes a breath, but still doesn’t look me in the eye. “I think I need to see Cashmere.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please drop me a line here or on tumblr (maxwellandlovelace) and let me know what you think.


	14. XIV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eternal love to papofglencoe! Wonderful friend and amazing beta! <3

_You need air_. _You need water_. _You need food_. _You do not_ need _to see Cashmere_.

 

Without thinking, I retract my hand from his. I do not dare look at him, afraid of what I’ll see.

 

“You’re a grown man, Peeta. You don’t need my permission,” I say, wishing I had something to set my eyes on.

 

“Don’t do this,” he murmurs, barely audible.

 

“Do what?” I snap, jerking my head up.

 

“Don’t shut me out.”

 

I stifle a snort. _He’s one to talk._

 

“What do you expect me to say? ‘Yes, I would very much like for you to go and see your ex-girlfriend, the one you loved with your whole heart, and the mother of your child.’”

 

I feel like a teenager throwing a fit, and I regret what I said even before I see the hurt registering on Peeta’s face. Why did I have to bring _that_ up? I threw the most traumatic experience of his life in his face because I’m jealous of his ex. I’m a horrible person.

 

He doesn’t say anything as his facial expression changes from pain to that of anger. I’ve seen him angry and remember thinking I wouldn’t want to be on the receiving end of that look. Now I am, and it hurts like hell. Especially because I’m the one who caused it—and because I _deserve_ it.

 

I don’t say anything either, afraid I’ll make an even bigger mess of this. I don’t know what I could say to fix this. After a couple of seconds of silence he gets up, throws some money on the table, and leaves.

 

I’m frustrated at myself for what I said, but then how did he expect me to react? And leaving the table is just childish. Peeta’s never been one to leave an argument like that; he always wants to resolve it as soon as possible.

 

I catch up with him outside the restaurant. His shoulders are tense, and I have to half-run to match his speed. “Peeta!” He doesn’t acknowledge me, even though I’m sure he heard me. The street is empty; it’s a small relief, knowing that no one sees me chasing him down. When I grab his arm he finally turns around, shooting daggers at me. “You can’t just drop a bomb like that and leave.”

 

“Why? What do you want me to do, Katniss?” he says, jerking his arm back. “I’m trying to do the right thing here.”

 

The ‘right thing’ would be to forget Cashmere, and that’s obviously not happening. I don’t know what to say to him, so I keep arguing. I can’t stop it. “You can start by acting like a fucking adult.”

 

“Look who’s talking.” It’s so out of character for him—to mock, even in the heat of an argument. I think he’s about to leave, but he doesn’t.

 

It’s like pressing a button, and I say the first thought that crossed my mind when he first mentioned Cashmere. “I’m not the one trying to hook up with my ex,” I say, crossing my arms and leaning on one of my hips.

 

He drags both his hand through his hair. “Really? That’s what you think?”

 

“It’s been four years, Peeta. Why now? Your timing is impeccable. Right when our relationship gets serious you want to cozy it up with your high school sweetheart.” _Why do the insults keep pouring out of me?_

 

“Oh my god!” He balls his hands into fists and turns around. He takes a couple of breaths to calm himself before facing me again. “It’s you! _You’re_ the reason.”

 

His answer throws me off guard, and I don’t know what to say. I was expecting him to say something like he’s tired of me or that I made him realize he wants to be with _her_ instead. I’m sure my confusion is written across my face. What does he mean?

 

His eyes soften, and there’s a couple seconds of silence before he continues. “It’s for you,” he repeats, quietly this time.

 

I clear my throat, trying to buy some time because I don’t know how to respond. _Am I missing something obvious here?_ “What...?” is all I can muster.

 

“I can’t live my life where everyone around me, you in particular, has to walk on eggshells, afraid of mentioning Cashmere or Charlie. Fuck, _I_ can’t even say her name without a stab in my heart.” He pauses, gathering himself. “I need answers, and I need closure. _You_ made me realize that. If there’s a possibility for me feel whole again—for _us—_ why shouldn’t I fight for that chance?”

 

This is what’s been going on inside his head? He has no desire to see Cashmere; she’s the means to an end. I can’t argue with his logic. It makes perfect sense. Why do I always think the worst of him?

 

Peeta continues, slowly shaking his head. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have left like that. I should have realized how everything looks from your point of view.”

 

I should have been more sensitive in response to what he said instead of throwing a tantrum. If I’d given him the chance to explain his reasoning we wouldn’t be standing out here yelling at each other.

 

I clear my throat. “You should do it.”

 

“I meant what I said. I won’t do it if you don’t want me to.”

 

I finally lock my eyes on his. “Peeta, if this is what you feel you have to do, then you should do it. My opinion shouldn’t matter.” I put my hand on his chest, as if testing the waters, searching his eyes for a sign that it’s okay.

 

He puts his hand over mine. “Of course it does. You’re the most important person in my life.”

 

My other hand finds his cheek, grazing his light stubble. This man never ceases to amaze me with his consideration and compassion. He leans into my touch, closing his eyes. He needs this. I see it now. He doesn’t want to see Cashmere because he still pines for her. He needs this because he needs answers. That’s the only way to move on.

 

If I could go back in time to find out exactly what happened to Prim, I would. That’s why I should support him and not let my jealousy do all the talking.

 

“I trust you. If I had the chance to get closure, I’d do it too.”

 

He moves my hand to his lips, kissing the knuckles. “I love you,” he sighs.

 

“I love you too.”

 

* * *

 

I put my hand on Peeta’s leg. He’s been bouncing it up and down for so long it’s starting to get on my nerves. He’s biting his nails, something he never does, and he keeps staring out the airplane window, seemingly captivated by the clouds.

 

“I’m sorry,” he says, when he feels my touch.

 

I turn in my seat, leaning into him. “I know you’re nervous, Peeta. Let me know if there’s anything I can do, okay?” He cups my cheek with his left hand, grazing the skin below my eye with his thumb, and I think he’s going to kiss me.

 

“Can I get you anything?” a voice behind me interrupts. I turn my head and notice the flight attendant.

 

“No thank you. We’re good.” It’s a relatively short flight, and Peeta’s too nervous to either eat or drink anything.

 

The woman looks over to Peeta, the corners of her mouth turning up. “It’s a pretty short flight, sir. We’ll be landing before you know it.” Then she leaves, not waiting for a response.

 

“Am I that obvious?” The hint of a smile spreads on his lips, amused that the flight attendant thought he was afraid of flying.

 

I take his hand in mine, kissing the back of it. “Yes.”

 

He and Cashmere are meeting tomorrow. I’m nervous too, but I’m trying not to show it. He offered for me to come with him, and I’m grateful that he asked, but this is something he needs to do on his own. To be honest, though, I don’t know if I’ll be able to focus on the conference when I know that he’ll be meeting her. I don’t doubt his feelings for me, but at one time he felt that way about her too. If he forgives her, what’s to stop those feelings from resurfacing?

 

“What are you thinking?” Peeta breaks me from my reverie.

 

“What?”

 

“You’re scowling.”

 

“Nothing. I’m just thinking about the conference tomorrow,” I say, hoping he’ll believe my white lie. It’s not that I don’t trust him—I do, but I can’t stop my thoughts from wandering. And he doesn’t know how he’ll react when he sees Cashmere.

 

He pulls me in for a kiss. “Don’t worry about it. You’ll do great, I just know it.”

 

As the flight attendant promised, we’re landing in no time. As soon as we claim our baggage we hail a cab that drives us to the hotel we’re staying at.

 

We’re standing in the elevator when Peeta grabs my hand, giving it a light squeeze. “You okay? You haven’t said much since we left.”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

He doesn’t press the issue, and the ride continues in awkward silence. He doesn’t break it until we’re inside our room and I’m unpacking my bag.

 

“Listen,” he says, sitting down on the bed. He’s got my attention, but I don’t stop unpacking my clothes. “Can you...?” He grabs my hand, effectively stopping me. “Can you stop doing that for a second?”

 

I yank my hand back, resting my weight on my right hip and meeting his gaze. “What?” I don’t mean it to come out like I’m irritated, but it does anyway.

 

He looks down at the floor, his head hanging. “I know I’m putting you in a difficult position. I don’t want to drag you through the shit of my past, so if you’ve changed your mind, tell me now.” There is no judgment in his voice, only understanding.

 

I put my hand on his shoulder. “I haven’t. But she held your heart for such a long time. What’s stopping her from claiming it again?” I’m ashamed for how my jealousy affects our relationship this way, but it’s also a relief to have finally said it out loud. Now he knows how I feel, at least.

 

“I stopped loving her a long time ago,” he says matter-of-factly. “And even if you weren’t in the picture, my future wouldn’t be with her. You have my heart for as long as you want it. I’m yours. Completely.”

 

His words instantly put me at ease, but the weight of them and the way he speaks them are what strike me the most. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He’s confronting the woman who kept his daughter away from him, who denied him the fatherhood he deserved and who broke his spirit. And I’m moping around like a child.

 

I sit on his lap, giving him a light kiss. “Mine,” I whisper.

 

“Yours,” he repeats, mimicking my action and deepening the kiss, pushing his tongue into my mouth. I let my hand slide over his chest, cursing the fabric of his shirt that keeps me from feeling his skin on the tips of my fingers.

 

He keeps grazing the skin below the hem of my shirt after we break apart, and I let my arms rest on his shoulders, my hands laced together around his neck. He locks his crystal blue eyes on me before speaking. “You have every right to feel what you’re feeling and I understand that. But I promise you, I have no desire to resume _any_ sort of relationship with Cashmere.”

 

“I support you in this, Peeta.” I kiss the side of his face. “I’m sorry I’ve been a little moody lately.”

 

He moves his hand to my hair, combing it with his fingers. “Are you kidding? You’ve been more understanding than I could ever hope for. You should give yourself some credit.” He kisses the tip of my nose. “How do you feel about tomorrow?”

 

“I don’t know.” I honestly don’t. I don’t know if the day will be agonizingly long or surprisingly short. Either way, Peeta will constantly be on my mind. “I don’t know how to prepare for this.”

 

“I’m talking about the conference. The reason we’re here. Remember?” His fingers stroke the side of my face, and I close my eyes at his touch. With everything going on I kind of forgot that I’m giving a presentation tomorrow. It’s not a very important one, and I doubt there’ll be many listeners. But I’m always nervous about giving oral presentations. But this whole thing with Cashmere made that nervousness fade in comparison.

 

I clear my throat. “Right. I’m a little nervous, but I’m supposed to be, right?”

 

“I think so. I wish I could come and watch. I probably wouldn’t understand a thing, but I’d love to see you.” He starts kissing my cheek, but I put my hand on his shoulder, stopping him.

 

“No. You’re not allowed to come. You’d only make me more nervous.”

 

“Me?” A subtle smirk spreads on his lips.

 

“You’d be too distracting for me to focus.” He smiles again, taking it as a compliment. _As he should._ “Besides, it’s a closed event. You have to be enrolled in a university to sign up for it.” I’m relieved that we can talk about other stuff too during our stay here.

 

“Seriously, though.” His voice is a little darker. And, as if he read my mind, he continues, “I don’t want this whole Cashmere thing to take away all the focus. I want to be here for you too.”

 

“Peeta...” I take breath to tell to him that he doesn’t have to apologize for this. Him meeting Cashmere is a huge deal, this conference is not.

 

“Wait,” he interrupts me before I get the chance. “I need to say this. You invited me to come here with you, and I’m running away to meet my ex. I’m not scoring any boyfriend points here, and I’m sorry.”

 

“Peeta. You told me about your past on our second date. Not what it was, but that something was haunting you. I’ve seen how it affects you, and I want nothing more than to help you ease that pain. I accept _all_ of you, and I love _all_ of you.”

 

He closes his eyes. “And you say you’re not good with words.”

 

We fall asleep not long after that. We’re both exhausted, physically as well as mentally. When I’m awakened by the alarm, I immediately turn it off, hoping I didn’t wake up Peeta. But, of course, he’s not sleeping. He says it’s because he’s a baker at heart, but I’ve noticed it’s during the early mornings his sleep is the most troubled.

 

“Hey,” he says as soon as I’ve turned off the alarm.

 

“Hey.” I give him a light peck on the cheek, wanting to spare him my morning breath. “Can’t sleep?”

 

“No.”

 

“How do you feel? Do you know what you’re going to talk about?” I haven’t asked him before because I feel like it’s none of my business, but the silence right now is so weird I can’t stand it.

 

“No, I don’t. I guess I’ll see how it feels when I see her.” He looks tired, but it’s not physical. It seems the weight of what will happen today is finally hitting him.

 

“Okay. But remember, there is no right or wrong way to handle this, so if you change your mind at the last minute it’s okay to leave. You can leave whenever you want and no one would blame you,” I try to reassure him, but I don’t know if I’m successful. I wonder if _anything_ can help him right now.

 

“Okay,” he croaks.

 

I quickly change clothes and make myself ready for the day. By the time I’m done, Peeta’s sitting by the edge of the bed, flipping through his phone. “I don’t know if I’m hoping for her to cancel or not,” he says when I sit beside him.

 

I put my hand on his knee, trying to be as strong as I can for him. “You can call me anytime. Whatever it is.”

 

“Thank you.” He kisses me on the mouth, his hands on my face. “I love you. Good luck today.”

 

“You too.”

 

It feels strange, wishing each other good luck, like it’s a normal day and we’re both going to work. But I don’t know what else to say. I’ve told him that I’m here for him and he knows that. I don’t know what more I can do.

 

The day passes by in a blur. My presentation goes great; the audience listens, and their questions are fair. I manage to answer all of them, and they seem satisfied. But apart from that, all my thoughts are on Peeta. Every five minutes I check my phone to see if I have a call or text from him.

 

He’s meeting Cashmere for lunch, and before he left the hotel he sent a text, but other than that, nothing. I _want_ to be supportive, and I meant every word I said to him, but it’s hard not to feel a stab of jealousy despite Peeta’s reassurances. They were together for so much longer than I’ve known him. What if he realizes that she was right for him all along? And that I’m just a distraction in the process of getting back together with her. _No._ Peeta loves me. He told me so, and I have to believe him. I do. I trust him.

 

It’s almost six when I get back to the hotel room, and Peeta’s there. He’s sitting on the couch in front of the small TV.

 

“Hey,” I say as soon as I spot him.

 

He doesn’t say anything. _This is not good_.

 

I notice the photos strewn over the coffee table when I approach him, carefully placing my hand on his shoulder. He still doesn’t say anything, but he covers my hand with his, squeezing it. In the other he’s holding one of the photographs.

 

I sit next to him, and he gives it to me. It’s Charlie on what I assume is her birthday, because there’s a half-eaten slice of cake in front of her and her mouth is covered in chocolate. _Peeta would’ve wanted to make that cake._

 

He picks up another one; it’s of her sitting on a swing and smiling at the camera. Her hair is almost the same shade as Peeta’s, and the joy in her eyes is undeniable. It’s unbelievable how many memories there are in each of these pictures—three years of them. And Peeta missed them all.

 

“She had my eyes,” he whispers, staring at the photo in his hands.

 

“It’s just like your painting,” I tell him, hoping it will give him a sense of comfort. That he knew her on some level, even though they never truly met.

 

A sad smile spreads on his lips. “Thank you.”

 

I want more details about what transpired between him and Cashmere, but this is not the time. He’ll tell me when he’s ready.

 

“I don’t know what to do with these,” he says. “It’s too hard to look at them, but I can’t get rid of them either.”

 

I cup his cheek. “Save them. Put them in a box for now, if it’s too much for you. And when you feel ready you can take them out again. Maybe it’ll be next week, next year, or never. Whatever it is, it’s alright.”

 

He leans into my touch, and I drag my hand through his hair as he closes his eyes.

 

“You want to go to bed?” It’s still early, but I think we’re both tired. I won’t force him to talk about what he and Cashmere discussed today. The emotional impact of everything is probably weighing heavy on his shoulders and he needs time to process it.

 

“Yeah. Let me just hit the shower and I’ll join you soon, okay?”

 

“Okay.” He kisses my cheek before getting up from the couch. “Peeta?” I call out to him when he’s at the bathroom door.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Is it okay if I take a look at these?”

 

“Yeah, sure.”

 

When I hear the shower I take a closer look at the photos. They’re all of Charlie, in different stages of her life. In some there is an older couple—her grandparents, I assume. Then I see _her_. Cashmere. High cheekbones and luscious lips with brown eyes and her perfect, proportional face that is framed by wavy blonde hair. She’s gorgeous. She’s holding a newborn Charlie in her arms, and, despite having recently delivered a baby, she’s picture perfect.

 

I can understand why Peeta’s mother liked her. She and Peeta must have made a stunning couple—they have similar features, and Peeta’s blue eyes contrast with Cashmere’s brown. She’s, however, absent in most of the pictures. I don’t know if it’s intentional or just a consequence of her being the one taking the photos. But it’s so easy to take selfies nowadays I’m sure there are lot of photographs with Cashmere and Charlie that she apparently chose to not give to Peeta. I guess that’s a good thing.

 

There is one of the pictures that stands out. It’s of Peeta and Charlie from the hospital. Peeta’s sleeping in a chair next to the bed. His head rests on the bed next to her slender arm, and he’s holding her small hand in his. It looks like she’s sleeping too, which, I guess, she kind of was.

 

* * *

 

We’re lying in the hotel bed, my back against Peeta’s chest, when he asks me about my day.

 

“It went surprisingly well. My mind’s been occupied with other things, so I didn’t have the time to get nervous. So it went better than expected.”

 

He slides the fabric of the T-shirt I’m sleeping in to the side, exposing my shoulder and kissing it. “Sorry.”

 

“Don’t be.” I didn’t mean to complain; it was just a statement.

 

Neither of us talks for a couple of minutes, but Peeta’s not sleeping, and nor am I.

 

“Do you… Do you want to talk about today?” I finally ask. I want him to feel like he can speak his mind, but I don’t want to drag it out of him. It’s a fine line to balance.

 

“I don’t want to bore you.”

 

“You’re not boring me. When are you going to get that through your thick skull?” I try to lighten the mood a little bit. Maybe he’ll open up.

 

He lets out a small chuckle, and it takes a couple of seconds before he speaks again. “We mostly talked about Charlie. What she was like. What games she liked to play, her favorite color, and stuff like that.”

 

That must have been rough for him, hearing about everything he missed. “What was it? Her favorite color, I mean?” _I can ask that, right?_ It’s a safe question.

 

“Green. Like yours.”

 

“And how did you feel talking about those things?” _Fuck, I sound like shrink._

 

“I mostly listened. But it felt… better than expected. I feel a little closer to her. Does that make any sense?”

 

I grab his hand that’s resting on my stomach and kiss his fingers. “Yes.” Nothing about this is normal, so whatever he feels, no one can say that he can’t.

 

He loops his arm around me again, pulling me closer to him. The small gesture makes me feel safer than I have in a long time, and it doesn’t take long before we’re both sleeping.

 

* * *

 

Peeta holds my hand in a vise-like grip. The cool October breeze is colder than normal for this time of year, sending shivers through my body, but even in the summer heat this would be chilling.

 

In front of us is the headstone of Charlie Washington. Peeta didn’t think he’d be able to come here on his own. I’m relieved that he asked, that he feels that he can and wants to draw strength from me.

 

His collar is pulled up, shielding him from the wind, and he’s in need of a haircut because his curls are hanging low on his forehead, almost reaching his eyes. It’s long enough for the wind to get the occasional hold on it, temporarily messing it up.

 

His face is impassive, but his eyes reveal a storm inside. He hasn’t shed a tear since we got here. To be honest, I think he’s tired of feeling sad about this; he wants to move on. He wants to be able to think of her without a lump in his throat.

 

“If you want some privacy, I can…” He interrupts me by squeezing my hand tighter.

 

“Stay,” he pleads. “Please.”

 

“Okay.”

 

He releases my hand and hunches down, swiping away invisible leaves from the stone. I put my hand on his shoulder, trying to send him some courage as he takes off his gloves and traces her name with his fingers.

 

The grave is very well-maintained; flowers that can’t be more than a day old stand in a vase, and there are numerous heart-shaped stones with messages of love written on them. Cherubs decorate the white headstone, and the lettering is simple. Apart from her name and date of birth and death, the text reads _Forever missed – never forgotten._

 

It’s beautiful, but if I were Peeta, I’d be taunted by those words. He’ll never forget her, but how can he _miss_ her? He’s said ‘goodbye’ to her, but never properly said ‘hello.’ He met her only in death, and that must be devastating.

 

He doesn’t say anything, and I don’t either. Whatever time he needs, I’ll give it to him.

 

I don’t know how long we’ve been here when Peeta stands up again, enveloping me in his arms. The way he nestles his nose into my neck while firmly gripping my back reveals a fraction of the turmoil that’s been going on inside of him—he’s letting his guard down. It doesn’t happen often, but when it does, it’s the most beautiful thing in the world. And I know in my heart that I will cherish this moment forever. But there’s also some finality to it. He doesn’t want this part of his life to dictate everything else.

 

“I think I’m ready to go now,” he finally says into my hair.

 

We leave the cemetery hand-in-hand, and I feel an odd sense of calm. I hate what he has had to go through, but it has strengthened us as a unit, and I feel a security in our relationship now that I hadn’t before. Like this is how it’s supposed to be. Me and Peeta. We’re both in this for the long haul, and whatever the future holds, we’ll face it together. We’ve managed to get through this, and we’ll get through anything.

 

But there’s a lurking thought in the back of my mind that if things seem too good to be true, they probably are. Most people would call me pessimistic; I’d say I’m realistic.

 

I _wish_ I was wrong.

 

It turns out I’m not.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Please drop me a line to let me know what you think.
> 
> I don't know how long it will take before the next update. It probably won't be before until next year. Im going out of town for the holidays and don't know how much time I'll have for writing. But you're welcome to check in with me to see how it's going=)
> 
> I'm always up for chatting. I'm maxwellandlovelace on tumblr.


	15. XV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caryn, not only do you fix my commas and prepositions, you're valued friend and a wonderful person! Thank you for everything that you do!! <3

In the months that follow, Peeta and I find ourselves back in our little bubble of passion we were in the beginning of our relationship. After our visit to D.C. he’s been so much lighter and more open. He’s talked about what Cashmere told him about Charlie without his voice thickening. I think that also gave him the courage to finally tell his mother. I was surprised by her reaction, to say the least. I had expected her to scold him for not telling her sooner, but she was very gracious and embraced him in a large hug. I did not miss her tears, and their relationship seems stronger than I think it ever was. I think she realized that _she_ had created the instability that caused him to keep it a secret for so long.

 

I defended my licentiate thesis two weeks ago, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen Peeta beam with such pride as when he came up to me afterward, lifting me up in a bone-crushing hug. His whispers about how we would celebrate made heat crawl up my cheeks. Unfortunately, I came down with the flu during the night, and it’s not until now that I’m feeling well again.

 

“Are you sure you’re alright with this?” Peeta asks, his voice filled with concern. “We can leave if you’re not feeling up for it.” Since I hadn’t left the house in two weeks, he took me out to dinner, and we’re rounding up the night with beers at a bar not far from Peeta’s place. We’ve found a couch in a semi-secluded corner where the music isn’t that loud, allowing us to talk without having to scream at the top of our lungs. He’s been making sure I’m okay at least every half hour. I know his concern is genuine, so I can’t get annoyed with his antics.

 

His arm is securely placed over my shoulders while his other hand rests on my thigh. “Peeta, I’m fine,” I reassure him, putting my hand over his. “Do you know how sick I am of those four walls in my bedroom?” That’s not the only reason—I’ve missed _him_ too. Sanders had pretty much been my only company. Peeta was there the night I got sick, putting wet cloths on my forehead and making me broth that I still don’t know how got me to finish. But the morning after, I banned him from my house, afraid of getting him sick too. After much protesting, he finally relented when I promised to keep in touch every day. I did, but the texts and phone calls did not satisfy my craving for him.

 

“I wouldn’t mind spending two weeks in your bedroom,” he smirks, moving his hand from my leg and taking a swig of his beer.

 

The implication of his words has the desired effect, but I try not to show it. Instead, I lean in, my mouth only inches from his ear. “Is that all you ever think about?”

 

“Nah, not all of the time.” I give him a chaste kiss on the side of his neck. “But… mostly.”

 

I stifle a laugh as I take my own beer and finish it in one gulp. “You are the worst.” I’m no better, but he doesn’t have to know that.

 

“I know,” he smiles and finishes his bottle. “I’m gonna get another one. You want anything?”

 

“I could go for another beer. But that will be my last. Being sick has turned me into a lightweight.”

 

He gets up from his seat and, in one swift motion, pulls me up with him. “Good. I want you awake and alert tonight. We haven’t celebrated yet,” he whispers in my ear, licking my earlobe. I blush at his words, but the light in here is so dim I don’t think he notices.

 

I give him a smile as he releases me from my his arms. The bar looks pretty swamped, so it may be a while before he’s back. I pull out my phone and idly start looking through it as I wait. I’m so focused on it that I barely notice the group of women stopping by the table. They obviously don’t see me because they put their drinks on it. I could tell them to split, but that would probably only cause trouble, and that’s the last thing I want. Maybe they’ll leave eventually.

 

“Now there’s a fine male specimen if I ever saw one,” one of them quips.

 

“Mmm… yummy,” another one continues. “And those curls are so cute.”

 

My thought instantly goes to Peeta. No, they’re not talking about him. There are a million guys here; it could very well be anyone of them. I follow the direction of their gaze to the bar where Peeta is in the middle of paying the bartender for the drinks. When he turns around the girls seem to lose their shit, fixing their hair, straightening their skirts, and pulling down their shirts.

 

I don’t know why I’m suddenly filled with dread. I know how his muscles, broad shoulders, and wavy hair appeal to women. Me too, obviously, but I feel like every woman in here is my competition. And I have nothing to compete with. Maybe I’ve already lost. Maybe one, or more, of them have already spent their fair share of time with him.

 

Fuck, I can’t hold that against him. Before we got together he could sleep with whomever he wanted. It’s not that I don’t trust him. I do. He’s always been very honest about it, never trying to hide the fact that he’d been with a number of women before me. That was a long time ago, and he’s left that life behind him but, damn it, I don’t want to have to think about it every time someone’s checking him out.

 

As Peeta comes back the three girls don’t move, only putting on their best smile, pouting their lips, and jutting their tits forward. _Oh god, they think he’s here for them._

 

“Excuse me, ladies,” he smiles when they don’t move. Reluctantly they make way for him, and when he sits down they notice me, their faces turning sour before leaving.

 

“What’s their problem?” Peeta asks, putting the two beers on the table and taking my hand in his.

 

I sigh, taking my hand back to tuck a lock of hair behind my ear. “Are you serious?” How did he _not_ see those girls fawning over him?

 

He looks confused. “Yeah.”

 

“They were standing here the entire time, ogling _you_.” I take a swig of my beer, feeling stupid for having to point out the obvious. “Oh, those strong arms. That ass,” I mimic their words in a high-pitched voice.

 

He raises his eyebrows, but seems unfazed. “That’s a shame.” He doesn’t seem to care about his admirers, which is a relief, but it doesn’t help my mood.

 

“What’s a shame?”

 

“They’re wasting their time.”

 

I take another long gulp of my beer. Putting it down on the table again, I glance over the sea of people, not wanting to meet Peeta’s gaze. He didn’t do anything wrong, but those girls only remind me that he’s so out of my league. I feel his hand over mine, squeezing it.

 

“Hey. You know I only have eyes for you,” he tries to reassure me, but it doesn’t help the sinking feeling in my stomach.

 

I exhale through my nose. “It’s just… Can we leave?”

 

“Yeah, sure.”

 

He stands up and takes my hand, holding it the entire walk back to his apartment. It only takes a couple of minutes, but it’s awkward. I don’t want to chitchat, and Peeta, probably sensing my mood, doesn’t seem to want to risk making it worse.

 

We fuck that night. I take charge, and Peeta lets me. With every snap of my hips I try to erase his memory of previous lovers when I ride him. When his hands skate up my waist and breasts I push them back down. Tonight, he will beg for _my_ touch, and it will be _my_ name on his lips when he comes.

 

I brace my hands on his chest as I fuck him, and he refrains from trying to touch me again.

 

“Fuck, Katniss. Let me touch you,” he pants. His hands are balled into tight fists, grabbing the sheets.

 

“No. You can watch,” I respond, moving one of my hands from his chest to rub myself.

 

“Holy fuck,” he exclaims, seemingly unable to move his eyes from where we are connected. I can’t help but look too, and seeing him slide in and out of me almost does it for me. My actions have the desired effect on Peeta, and he thrusts into me with such force that it doesn’t take long for me to come, and he follows only seconds after.

 

He loops his arm around my waist, holding me tight and giving me a kiss on the back of my shoulder. It’s not long before we both fall asleep.

 

* * *

 

For once, I wake up before Peeta does. I do my best to keep quiet while I pull on a pair of sweatpants and tug on one of Peeta’s t-shirts. This one says _If you wish to make an apple pie from scratch, you must first invent the universe._ How many of these does he have?

 

I take Sanders out for his morning walk, giving me some time to clear my head. We didn’t drink that much last night, so I’m not hungover, but I still feel awful. I shouldn’t have taken my insecurities out on Peeta last night. He didn’t even care that those girls were checking him out, and I acted like he did.

 

When I get back to the apartment he’s still not up, so I start making some coffee. He loves the smell of it when he wakes up, so it’s my peace offering to him. But I’m not even halfway done when a set of hands on either side of me grabs the counter and his lips grace my shoulder.

 

“Not that I’m complaining about last night, because that was fucking hot, but are you going to tell me what’s bothering you?”

 

His naked chest presses against my back, and I melt into him. I don’t want to talk about last night; I want to forget it.

 

“It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it,” I try to shrug it off.

 

“It didn’t seem like nothing. We were having such a good time and then…” He pauses. “Did those girls say anything to you?”

 

“No.”

 

“Did I do something?” He tenses behind me. “Because I’d never…”

 

“I know,” I interrupt. I don’t want him thinking he did anything wrong, because this is all me. “It’s just tiring. I don’t like how all women swoon over you.”

 

“Katniss. Do you know how many guys I’ve sent death glares to when we’re out?”

 

“What?”

 

“You don’t know the effect you have, do you?” I turn around in his arms, urging him to explain. “I’m definitely not the only one who appreciates that beautiful face of yours, those stunning silver eyes, your flawless skin, and everything else I love about you.” He swipes my hair away from my shoulder. “But I know I’m the only one who gets to do this,” he says, kissing the side of my neck. I whimper at his initiative, and when his tongue connects with my skin I grab his hair, tugging lightly at the tips. Despite my inner turmoil, my body always reacts the same way to him.

 

When he releases me, his hands slide down my arms. “But it makes me kind of proud too. That I landed such a hottie,” he smiles.

 

I give him a light kiss on the lips. “Thank you,” I say, breaking eye contact.

 

“You don’t seem convinced.”

 

“I am. It’s just… I don’t know if...” _How do I say it?_

 

He doesn’t push me, letting me take this at my own pace. “I don’t know if any of them are women from your past.” There. I’ve said it. I know it’s immature and jealous, but it’s how I feel. He deserves _that_ at least.

 

He turns around and hangs his head. Gripping the counter on the opposite side, his knuckles turn white. He’s pissed at me. He’s hurt that I reacted the way I did when those girls were checking him out, even though he didn’t care about it. He thinks I doubt him. “I’m gonna go home,” I say tentatively, carefully putting the coffeepot on the kitchen island.

 

He whips his head around. “What? No.” He grabs my hand. “That’s not… Don’t leave.” He takes my other hand too so we’re face-to-face.

 

“You’re upset, Peeta.”

 

“Not with you. And even if I was, that still doesn’t mean I want you to go.” His fingers trace the outside of my arms before he pulls me in for a hug, burying his face in my hair. I let my hands slide up his back. “I’m angry with myself.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Because of the way I acted after she died. I felt numb, and _that_ felt so wrong. She was my daughter and I couldn’t even mourn her properly.” I want to tell him that there is no proper way to mourn, but I don’t want to interrupt him. “I guess I wanted to feel _something_ , and…” He hesitates. “You don’t have to listen to this.”

 

I don’t know if I _want_ to hear it, but I think I _should_. “Tell me.”

 

“I guess it made me feel wanted again. God, I’m such a selfish prick. I want to apologize to each and every one of them for using them for my own personal gain like that. I’m sorry... I don’t want to dump this on you. It’s _my_ issue and _my_ poor judgment. And now you’re hurt because of it.”

 

This was not how I thought this was gonna go. I was expecting him to get angry with me for blaming him for what happened after Charlie died. I should’ve known that he’d only blame himself.

 

“Peeta, you’re allowed to have a past. I don’t care how many women there were before me.” He releases me from his embrace, and his piercing eyes cause me to waver. “Okay, I care a little.” This earns me a subtle chuckle, lightening the mood a bit. “My point is, the number is not the issue. I guess I’m too selfish to stand the thought of sharing you.”

 

He cradles my face in his hands. “Have I ever told you that you are the most incredible person I know?” he croaks, pressing his lips to mine. He gives me way too much credit, but I’m not going to complain.

 

“Remind me.”

 

His hands are on my waist, his fingers digging into my hip bones to lift me up so I’m sitting on the counter. Instinctively, my whole body wraps itself around him.

 

“You are. I love you so much,” he whispers before his mouth is on mine again, giving me no chance to reply. One of his hands slides up the side of my waist while the other supports my back. I use my legs to pull him even closer to me, and I groan into his mouth when I feel how aroused he is. I want to stay like this forever. We break apart, but it doesn’t take long before his lips are on me again, trailing kisses down my neck.

 

We’ve never done it on the kitchen island before—Peeta’s obsessed with keeping his kitchen sanitary. He doesn’t seem to mind now, though, and when his hand reaches my breast and grabs it I know he wants this as much as I do. He wants _me._

 

When his thumb slides over my nipple, my legs tighten around his waist, trying to get him closer. At this, he sucks the side of my neck harder, sending a wave of fire through my heart down to my core. I didn’t know that this—Peeta—was what I was looking for, but now that I have him I never want to get used to a life without him again.

 

A knock on the door breaks us from our moment and Peeta pulls back, a disappointed sigh leaving his lips. “That’s probably Delly. She had some papers for me to sign.”

 

“Have you ever told her she’s a huge cockblocker?”

 

“I haven’t,” he chuckles. “Can you open it? I’ve got to put on a shirt.”

 

“Okay.” Delly and I are not friends, but we manage to keep a decent tone when we meet. I can’t say I look forward to seeing her though.

 

“You can tell her your nickname for her,” he says, disappearing through the hallway.

 

“Right.”

 

But it’s not Delly. _I wish it was Delly._

 

I recognize her immediately from the pictures. Her hair is a little shorter, but it’s definitely her. It doesn’t look like she’s aged at all. Her eyes are dark brown—not what you would expect from a blonde.

 

“Cashmere.” I say her name without realizing it, and she seems surprised.

 

Peeta’s voice breaks me from staring at her, and I snap my head around, gauging his reaction.

 

“Delly, I didn’t think you’d be her until...” He stops when he sees who it is. His hair is still tousled from my hands and he’s halfway through tugging on his shirt, the skin right above the waistline of his pants still visible. His mouth is slightly open, and his face looks like he’s trying to divide two large numbers in his head. He slowly pulls the shirt down, and his eyes flit to me before locking on Cashmere again. His jaw clenches before he speaks. “How did you get in here?”

 

“Someone was leaving when I got here,” Cashmere answers. I’ve only imagined her voice in my head, and it sounds nothing like it. Her eyes are set on Peeta, like I’m not even here. “But does it really matter? I’m here.”

 

_She’s here?_ What the fuck does that even mean? Did he invite her here? No, judging by the look of his face he did not know she was coming. At least not now.

 

“Why?” His eyes are squinting, like he’s trying to read her mind.

 

Finally, she acknowledges my presence, and I look at her again. “Can we have a minute?” Like I’m some sort of secretary. _No, I will not leave, and damn you, Peeta, if you ask me to._

 

“What do you want, Cashmere? I told you, I don’t...”

 

“Peeta.” She talks to him like he’s a child, and I’m instantly annoyed by her tone. ”We need to talk this through. I’ve given you time, like you wanted.”

 

_He told her he wanted to see her again?_

 

“That’s not what I said.” His shoulders are tensed and his eyes hard, containing all of his emotions. “I appreciate you taking the time to meet with me in D.C., but that’s it.”

 

“I thought that...” she looks over to me, silently begging me to leave. She obviously wants to have this conversation with Peeta alone, but I’m standing my ground. I don’t know where I found the strength to look at her trying to get him back right in front of me. “Peeta, I made _one_ mistake. You can’t hold that against me forever,” she pleads.

 

“Each and every day of her life you made a mistake!” he erupts. “Every fucking day you chose not to tell me I had a daughter. Like I didn’t even deserve to know.” His cheeks are flushed, and his breathing ragged. It feels weird only standing here, listening to their argument, but it doesn’t seem like Peeta wants me to leave.

 

“You’re not the only one grieving, Peeta.” Her voice is low, sorrowful. I almost feel sorry for her. Almost.

 

“I know. But _you_ made the decision to cut me out. You weren’t the person I thought you were, and you apparently didn’t know who I was either. You made that painfully obvious.”

 

They’re staring at each other, like they’re waiting for the other to give in. It’s Peeta who speaks first. “And you showing up here like this only shows that you are still the same.” He exhales. “So if this isn’t about Charlie we don’t have anything more to talk about. Sorry you wasted your trip,” he says quietly, slowly shaking his head.

 

Cashmere opens her mouth, but another knock interrupts her.

 

“Knock, knock,” Delly’s cheerful voice cuts through the silence as she opens the door without waiting for a response. That woman needs to learn some fucking boundaries.

 

I cannot be in the same room as these two women, both of whom have more than friendly intentions toward Peeta. It’s too much. “I have to go get dressed,” I say, before making a beeline for the bedroom.

 

“Katniss...” Peeta says as I walk past him. His hand graces my arm, but I don’t acknowledge him.

 

I close the door as soon as I’m inside, leaning against it, like that will keep the thoughts of them outside. I hear Peeta’s muffled voice through the door, but I can’t make out what he’s saying. I don’t know if I want to. A couple of seconds later I feel the door being pushed from the other side.

 

“Katniss. I didn’t know she was coming here.”

 

By the way he reacted to her presence he’s probably telling the truth, but her being here brings up images of them together. She must have gotten pregnant somehow, right? I know I’m only tormenting myself, but I can’t help it.

 

“She certainly thought you were expecting her,” I say dryly. I’m not mad at him, but I can’t stop this feeling of him slipping through my grasp.

 

“Well, I didn’t. Can you please let me in?” His voice is soft despite my tone.

 

I can’t lock myself in his bedroom forever, so I step away from the door and sit on the floor, leaning my back on the side of the bed. When Peeta comes in he immediately takes a seat next to me, lacing our fingers together. The warmth of his hands spreads cotton around my heart, soothing me. He doesn’t love her. He loves _me_. He doesn’t say anything—he knows what’s troubling me, and he never judges.

 

I squeeze his fingers in mine before speaking. “You’re too nice.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“You’re too nice to tell her upfront that you didn’t want to see her again. That’s probably why she thought she could come here.”

 

“Maybe.” He kisses my fingers, and I rest my head on his shoulder.

 

* * *

 

After my licentiate defense I had planned to take a couple days off to cool down. The weeks after D.C. were so intense and filled with all-nighters that I needed that time off. But since I got sick I had to be at home longer than I had planned, and now I’m back full-time again. Since I was away from work for so long I’ve got stuff to catch up on, leaving my lunch break extremely short. Peeta’s made me a chicken sandwich, and it’s the highlight of the day. I’m about to leave my office when my phone pings with a text.

 

It’s from Peeta. He only submitted a photo of a canvas with a heart painted on it.

 

_Katniss: You’re wasting your canvases._

 

_Peeta: Are you saying that this isn’t my best work? Besides, I take it off Delly’s salary;)_

 

_Katniss: You are evil, Peeta Mellark!_

 

_Peeta: I know._

 

That man always puts a smile on my face, and I send him a less sophisticated heart using the buttons on the keyboard before locking the phone to have my lunch. To save time, I decide to print one of the articles I’m reading to multitask. But there’s something so depressing about eating lunch in your office, so I decide to leave and sit outside the cafeteria.

 

I’ve almost finished my sandwich when someone puts down a cup of coffee and sits on the opposite side. I don’t mind sharing a table, as long as they’re quiet and let me read my article. It’s not until said someone clears their throat that I look up.

 

Her presence affects me the same way it did this weekend. _Cashmere._

 

“Oh. Hi,” I manage to get out.

 

“Hey. It’s Katniss, isn’t it?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“I don’t think we were properly introduced. I’m Cashmere,” she says, stretching out her hand for me to take.

 

I look at her tentatively before reluctantly taking her hand. Is this going to be a recurring thing? Her showing up like a fucking jack-in-the-box? “If you’re looking for Peeta, he’s not...”

 

“No, I wanted to talk to _you_.”

 

“How did you know where I was?”

 

“Peeta mentioned you worked at the university, and you’re listed on the website. It wasn’t difficult.” _You’re not as special as you think you are._

 

“Oh.”  

 

“So, how are you?”

 

I don’t want to small-talk, especially not with _her._

 

“Listen, I don’t want to be rude or anything, but I don’t think you want to talk to me any more than I want to talk to you, so why don’t you just cut to the chase?”

 

She clears her throat again. “Fine. I don’t know how much Peeta’s told you about me?”

 

“I think I know enough.”

 

“Okay, then you know how long we were together.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“And we knew each other quite some time before we started dating. We were each other’s first, did he tell you that?” He hadn’t told me specifically, but I figured as much. A dreamy smile spreads on her lips, as if remembering it. I feel like my lunch is about to make a reappearance.

 

“What’s your point?” I try to sound like I don’t care, but I’m pretty sure she sees right through it.

 

“My point is that we share a history. It’s obvious that whatever you two have...” She makes a flippant movement with her fingers, as if our relationship is nothing more than a fling. “...he’s using it to get back at me. But he _will_ come around. He won’t stay mad at me forever. He _can’t_.”

 

She’s right about that; I don’t even think he’s still angry with her. But I’m not going to tell her that. We are not friends, and it’s not my job to make her feel better. Especially since the only reason she is here is for her own benefit, not caring who she hurts, and completely misjudging Peeta’s character in the process.

 

“If you think Peeta would use another woman to get back at you, you clearly don’t know him at all.”

 

She puts her hand over mine. “Honey, I’ve known him for years. We’re meant for each other. So if you care for him at all, you’d back down and allow him to be happy again.” I pull my hand back, disgusted by her touch. “You’ll only end up hurting yourself if you don’t.”

 

The fact that she says it like it’s for my well-being only aggravates me further. This woman has some fucking nerve, coming here, insulting both me and Peeta, and not even have the decency to try to cover it. I want to give her a piece of my mind, but no words come out. I only stare at her, dumbstruck. Apparently, she takes this as a sign of compliance.

 

“There are plenty of fish in the sea. You’ll probably find someone new.” As if I change boyfriends like I change underwear. _Well, fuck you._

 

I will _not_ yell at this woman here. This is where I work, and I will conduct accordingly, even if I want to slap her face. She will not have the satisfaction of knowing that she can get a rise out of me. But I don’t have time to respond at all before she gets up, effectively ending the conversation. “It was nice meeting you,” she quips before sauntering away.

 

I don’t know what infuriates me the most; her audacity by coming here and basically telling me to break up with Peeta or her thinking that it’s not a dick move on her part. Either way, today is ruined.

 

I don’t finish my sandwich. She even managed to kill my appetite. The rest of the day goes by in a blur, the keyboard on my computer receiving most of my anger. When it feels like my eyes are about to bleed from looking at the screen for too long, I stuff the laptop in my bag and head home. I really look forward to spending the rest of the night on my couch, curled up in a blanket, and shamelessly emptying a cheap bottle of wine. Hopefully, the alcohol will dissipate some of my anger.

 

I grab a burger on my way home; I really don’t have energy, nor the will, to cook anything tonight.

 

Being so stressed at work must cause me to forget things. When I pull up to the driveway the porch light is on; I always turn it off when I leave. I make a mental note to try to take it easy this weekend so I don’t burn myself out. It will probably be forgotten, like my other mental notes.

 

I barely have time to open the door and toss the keys in the basket before my heart jumps. A dark shadow looms over me, and all my senses are suddenly on edge. I think I let out a sad-sounding yelp before someone turns the lights on and I realize it’s Peeta standing in the hallway. At least he has the decency to look ashamed.

 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to...”

 

“What the fuck, Peeta? You scared the shit out of me.”

 

He immediately rushes to me. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

 

“Well, you did.”

 

“I’m sorry.” He takes my hands in his and kisses my fingers, but I retract them. I’m not in a cuddly mood.

 

“What are you doing here?”

 

“I wanted to see you. I’ve barely seen you this week, so I thought I’d surprise you. Dinner’s in the oven.”

 

“I already ate. If you’d told me you were coming, I could’ve told you that you didn’t have to cook.” I hate wasting food, and Peeta knows it.

 

“That’s fine. I can put it in the fridge and make lunches for you.”

 

Why does he always have to be so nice? He makes me feel like the worst bitch in the world. I throw off my jacket and kick off my shoes before going to the kitchen. I pull out a wine glass and fill it almost to the brim, gulping down half of it before Peeta appears in the door opening.

 

“What’s the matter, Katniss?” He looks concerned, but I ignore it.

 

“You should have told me you were coming.”

 

“I thought you’d be happy.”

 

“I don’t like surprises.” He knows I don’t.

 

He holds up his hands in surrender. “Fine, I won’t do it again,” he sighs, frustration evident in his voice.

 

“Good. You can tell your ex I don’t like her showing up unannounced either.”

 

“What?”

 

I swig the last of the wine before refilling the glass. “Is that another one of the things you two share?”

 

He’s taken aback by my question at first, then furrows his brows in confusion.“Katniss, you’re not making any sense.” _How dense can he be?_

 

“I had a very lovely visit at work from Cashmere today.” Peeta opens his mouth, as if to speak, but I continue before he has the chance. “She basically told me to stay away from you.”

 

He squints his eyes, locking them on me, as if trying to figure out it I’m telling the truth or not. “Shit. You want me to talk to her?”

 

“No.” I don’t want them spending any time together at all. I grab my glass and bottle and make my way out to the living room, pushing myself past Peeta. He follows, wanting to resolve this now. I don’t. I want to sit here and feel sorry for myself.

 

“Then what do you want me to do, Katniss?”

 

Why do I have to tell him what to do? He can make his own decisions. Besides, I don’t even know what I want him to do, and that’s what frustrates me the most. He can’t do anything about this, and I can’t either. I need to think this through without him standing over me all the time. “Leave.”

 

_Don’t leave._ I don’t know why I said it, and by the look of pure shock on Peeta’s face he doesn’t either. I don’t know what to say now. Whatever I say, I will make this worse. Peeta doesn’t seem to know what to say either, standing there stunned to silence. I want to take back what I said. Of course I don’t want him to leave, but I can’t seem to form the words.

 

When he finally does speak, his cold voice sends chills down my spine. “Fine.”

 

I pull up the blanket from the side of the couch and wrap it around me. I can’t watch Peeta leave, but I can’t bring myself to ask him to stay either. The closing door is my new least favorite sound.

 

It’s only been a few minutes when my phone pings with an incoming text. When I see Peeta’s name on the screen my heart lifts a little, but it drops again when I read the content of the message.

 

_Peeta: The food is ready in 20 minutes. It’s lasagna, so you can just put it in the freezer after it’s cooled._

 

That’s it. A chilling report on the dinner. I turn the phone off, not wanting any more reminders of our fight. Was it a fight? It was basically me blaming him for the actions of a woman he’s barely spoken to for four years, like he’s responsible for her. Why am I always fucking everything up?

 

Cashmere doesn’t have to tell me to stay away from Peeta. I seem to be doing a pretty good job at it myself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I appreciate your comments! You can also find me on tumblr (maxwellandlovelace).


	16. XVI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All my love to @papofglencoe for helping me with this, in so many ways!!

The pain pounding in my head is what wakes me up. I wish it was because of the wine, but that’s probably only part of it. I ended up falling asleep on the couch, and Sanders is lying on the floor next to it. I never took him out for his evening walk yesterday, but he doesn’t seem too affected by it. Maybe Peeta took him out last night.

 

Peeta. The thought of him brings tears to my eyes. How I blamed him for the actions of other people. Why do I keep pushing him away? Of course he can’t control Cashmere, nor should he. I was just so frustrated. I needed to take it out on someone—or something—and he was there. God, I’m a horrible person, yelling at him only because he was available.

 

I toss the blanket away, and the cold air makes my skin pebble. I need hot coffee, and I have to sort this out with Peeta. Does he even want to talk about it? He’s probably still upset with me. He _should_ be.

 

As if on autopilot I open the fridge to get the milk and notice the lasagna from last night, untouched. I was never hungry, but I didn’t want to waste the food. Besides, this might be the last thing Peeta ever makes me—I want to savor it.

 

I don’t spot him until I’ve turned on the kettle. The kitchen window doesn’t offer a view of the porch as good as the one in the living room, but I can still see his profile. His curls are just short enough not to reach his eyes and get tangled in his eyelashes. He rests his elbows on his knees, his head hanging low. I can’t see his face clearly, but his posture is obviously one of defeat. I did this. He’s usually a ray of light, and I alone have managed to turn him into this dark cloud. Has he finally realized that I have too much emotional baggage to be worth the while?

 

I don’t know if I should go out to him. Am I ready to face him? Facing him means facing myself with my failures. But it doesn’t matter. I _have_ to do it.

 

When the kettle is done I pour the water in two cups, adding milk to his and sugar to mine. It’s not the fancy coffee his machine makes, but he’s never complained about it.

 

The door creaks as I open it, catching his attention. The way he looks at me—wary, like he’s afraid I might go off again—breaks my heart.

 

“Hey.”

 

“Hey. How long have you been here?” I croak on the last word.

 

He turns his phone around in his hand, pressing the home button. “Half an hour.” He doesn’t look at me, and it’s killing me.

 

“Why didn’t you come inside?” _Because I didn’t want to get my head bitten off for coming unannounced._

 

“I... ah… didn’t know if you wanted me to.” I hold out the coffee cup for him and take a seat next to him. “But I didn’t want to leave either. The porch seemed like a good compromise.”

 

“Oh.”

 

Silence. I can’t rely on him to keep this conversation going. _I_ have to do this.

 

“I shouldn’t have… I was such a bitch yesterday. I know you can’t control what Cashmere does. And I shouldn’t have let her get to my head like that, but I just got so angry. I’m sorry.”

 

He takes a sip of his coffee, as if trying to buy some time. “I know you said you didn’t want me to, but I might have called Cashmere yesterday.”

 

“What did you say?”

 

“You know.” He shrugs his shoulders. “For her to get the fuck out of my life.”

 

I would have loved to see him telling Cashmere that. The image probably brings a smile to my lips because I see it reflected on Peeta.

 

He takes my hand, his face turning somber again. “I’m sorry too. I should’ve stayed.”

 

“Peeta. I asked you to leave.”

 

“Yeah, but I don’t want you to be alone when you’re so upset.” I squeeze his hand, letting him know that it’s okay, before he continues. “What did she say to you?”

 

“That you two have history and that you’re meant for each other. Stuff like that.”

 

His eyes go dark and his jaw clenches. “I’m sorry you had to hear that.”

 

“It’s fine.”

 

“No, it’s not. Cashmere and me aren’t meant for each other.” He says it as if it leaves a bad taste in his mouth. “You’re it for me, Katniss.” He says it with such certainty, like it comes as natural as breathing.

 

“I think…” I clear my throat.  “I think you’re it for me too.”

 

His face lights up, and he leans in for a kiss. His lips are soft, like always, and his tongue tastes like coffee. It’s a short kiss, but it says everything.

 

“You want to come inside?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

We don’t make it to the bedroom. We’ve barely seen each other this week, and add to that the two weeks that I was sick. I land on the couch and Peeta’s on top of me, trailing soft kisses down my throat. A whimper escapes me, and Sanders makes a sound from the floor.

 

Peeta raises his head, exhaling. “I can’t do it. Not with him in the same room.”

 

I grab his collar, pulling his mouth back to mine. It’s only been a few hours since he left, but it feels like years. “He doesn’t care.”

 

“It feels like we’re violating him in some way.”

 

Damn it, he’s right. “Fine.” I put my hand on his chest, urging him to get up so we can take this to another room. I’ve barely had time to stand up before Peeta scoops me up in his arms bridal-style. “What are you doing?”

 

“I’m gonna prove to you that you are the only one for me. Starting by carrying you to the bedroom.” A devilish smile spreads on his lips. “And we’ll take it from there.”

 

I have no words, so I only smile back at him as he carries me to the bedroom. He puts me down gently and removes his shirt before he’s on top of me again. I spread my legs, allowing him to settle his hips between my thighs. The weight of him pressing me against the mattress does wonders for me. His lips find themselves back on my neck as he continues to kiss his way down my body.

 

But a vibration against my inner thigh breaks us both from the moment.

 

“Fuck,” he groans before pulling out the phone from his pocket.

 

“Who is it?”

 

“You don’t want to know.” He dismisses the call and puts the phone on the nightstand. But it’s only seconds before it starts to vibrate again. I take the phone to look at the number. _Delly._ I swipe my thumb across the screen to answer.

 

“Hey, Delly. Peeta can’t talk right now. He’s about to fuck his girlfriend,” I say before ending the call and turning the phone off.

 

Peeta only stares at me in awe, mouth slightly open. “Did you just tell her that?” he asks in disbelief. Before I get a chance to reply he starts laughing, rolling off me. I join him, feeling the anxiety from last night and this morning dissipate. His face turns serious. “But don’t expect me to just fuck you.”

 

“What do you mean?” I furrow my eyebrows.

 

“I will do a lot more than that. I’m going to take my time.” He kisses me on the nose. “I meant what I said.” The cheek. “I’m going to prove to you that I’m yours.” The neck. “Only yours.” The shoulder. “Completely.”

 

I shudder at his lips on my skin, and my hands go to unbuckle his belt. He’s already hard, and I feel impatient for him, but he stills my hand, pressing it against his hardness. “Do you feel that? You’re the only one who has this effect on me. Only you.”

 

A heat spreads from my neck up to my face, and I must be blushing, but Peeta only smiles.

 

He keeps his promise, driving me over the edge so many times that I lose count. With his fingers, his tongue, his cock. Fast and slow. By late afternoon we’re sitting in my couch, a blanket wrapped around us, regaining our strength, and idly watching a rerun of some comedy series I don’t follow. We’re only in our underwear, and his naked chest against my bare back puts me completely at ease, all my worries melting away. His fingers play with my hair, and he occasionally kisses the shell of my ear or the back of my head.

 

Sex with Peeta is amazing, but I cherish these moments just as much.

 

“Do you think Delly will recover from that mental image I gave her?”

 

He lets out a breath before answering. “Probably not. But maybe it’s good for her. So she can, you know, move on.”

 

“What do you mean? I thought you’d put that behind you.”

 

“We did... sort of. She’s a great assistant, and I value our friendship, but it hasn’t been the same since...” He exhales. “It feels like I have to walk on eggshells, afraid that she’ll be hurt whenever I mention you.”

 

The sadness in his voice is obvious. He’s losing a friend and can’t do anything about it. I turn around in his arms, resting my head over his heart. “I’m sorry.”

 

His hand finds its way through my hair, and I close my eyes. He doesn’t say anything, and he doesn’t have to. That’s one of the things I appreciate most about our relationship; we don’t always have to talk for the other to understand. The movements of his fingers on my scalp are so soothing that I feel myself drifting off. I’m somewhere between sleeping and awake when a drilling sound startles me.

 

The perpetrator is my phone, lying on the table in front of the couch.

 

“Ah, fuck,” I groan as I poke my hand out from under the blanket to grab it. It’s a text message from a number I don’t recognize.

 

_When you’re done screwing tell my little bro to check his fucking phone._

 

Judging by the choice of words, it’s Rye. He’s the only one who makes a point out of Peeta being the youngest.

 

“I think this is for you, _little bro_ ,” I say, handing him my phone.

 

“Hmph, I’m taller than him.”

 

“Really?”

 

“A whole inch,” he brags.

 

“Wow, you must be towering over him.”

 

He snorts. “He and Aaron are coming over tonight, but I can cancel if you want. We can stay here and do nothing.”

 

As tempting as it sounds, I don’t want him to feel like he has to miss out on spending time with his brothers. “No, it’s fine. Can I come?”

 

“Of course.” He kisses my cheek. “I guess I better go call him.”

 

He wriggles himself free from my embrace, and the couch is not as cozy anymore. Sanders’ head perks up, his gaze following Peeta as he leaves the room. “Sanders, stay. He’s not even going to the kitchen.”

 

The phone call only takes a couple of minutes, and when Peeta emerges from the bedroom fully clothed I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t disappointed. “What did he want?”

 

“Just making sure I have the right kind of beer. Oh, and Johanna is coming too.” He threads his belt through the loops of his pants before continuing. “I have to go to the store. You can come if you want, or you can stop by the apartment later.”

 

“No, I’ll come with you. We can take my car. Can you wait a couple of minutes?”

 

“Yeah, sure.”

 

I swiftly pull on a pair of jeans and briefly consider taking one of Peeta’s shirts, but decide against it. I can’t wear my boyfriend’s clothes all the time. I take a quick look in the mirror, making sure I don’t have sex hair before I walk back out to Peeta, who’s already turned off the TV and is ready to go.

 

The supermarket is crowded, and we end up standing in a long line at the checkout. I’m usually not comfortable with so many people in a small space, but Peeta’s presence calms me a little bit. He’s standing behind me with his arms on either side of me, his hands holding the cart in front of us.

 

Apparently standing in line makes it okay for people to gawk at my boyfriend. I send a glare to a woman to the right of us and take Peeta’s hand for support to keep my mind from spiraling. He uses his other hand to tip my head up and capture my lips in a brief kiss. “I love you,” he whispers.

 

“I love you, too.”

 

When we get back to his apartment we fall into our usual routine; Peeta cooks while Sanders and I watch. Sanders keeps a close eye on the meat, and I watch the sexy man in the apron. He hums while chopping the vegetables, and a smile dances on his lips.

 

“How come you’re in such a good mood?”

 

He wipes his hands before using the back of his arm to get his hair out of his eyes. “It’s just… I haven’t seen Johanna in a while. Ever since my birthday it’s felt like she’s been avoiding me, always having something else to do when I suggest we do something. So I guess I’m happy that she’s coming today.”

 

“I didn’t know.”

 

“It’s no big deal. I’m probably just imagining things,” he shrugs it off before returning to the vegetables.

 

“Okay. When are they coming?”

 

“I said six, so probably six thirty.”

 

But he’s wrong. At six p.m. sharp Aaron and Rye bustle through the door. Peeta’s in the kitchen, so I go to greet his brothers.

 

Rye shamelessly ruffles my hair. “Hey there, Kat.” Aaron is a little more reserved. I don’t know if it’s because he usually is or because of my little outburst on Peeta’s birthday.

 

“Hey, Katniss.”

 

“Hey. I thought Johanna was coming too.” If she doesn’t come Peeta will be so disappointed.

 

“She is. She’s… parking the car.” He drags his hand through his hair, exactly like Peeta does. After Aaron’s taken off his coat we enter the living room; Rye takes a seat on the couch and starts playing with Sanders while Aaron sits down on one of the bar stools as Peeta hands him a beer.

 

“Johanna will be right up,” he says before Peeta gets the chance to ask.

 

Peeta’s eyes flit to Rye before slowly going back to Aaron. “What’s wrong?” he asks suspiciously.

 

“Why would anything be wrong?” His voice is a little higher than usual, and he pulls on the label on the side of the bottle.

 

Peeta looks to Rye on the couch. “Because he’s quiet, and you’re fidgeting.”

 

Aaron swallows. “Okay. Uhm… Can we sit down?”

 

“Yeah, hold on.” He washes his hands before leaving the kitchen area, and we all sit down on the couch. Sanders, seemingly sensing the tension, lays his head on Peeta’s lap.

 

Aaron rubs the side of his neck. “I don’t really know how to say this, man.”

 

I offer my hand to Peeta and he takes it, squeezing it, but he doesn’t say anything, urging Aaron to continue.

 

“Johanna’s…” Aaron locks his eyes on the floor a couple of seconds before continuing. “She’s pregnant.”

 

Peeta doesn’t move, only stares at his oldest brother, and Rye carefully observes the exchange. How will he react to this? The pictures of Charlie are still in a box. How will he respond to his brother having something that he was denied in the cruelest way possible?

 

“I’m going to be an uncle?” he finally asks. I can’t tell if he’s happy about it or not, but I squeeze his hand, letting him know that I’m here for him.

 

“Yeah.”

 

Both Aaron and Rye look at Peeta like he’s a ticking bomb, ready to explode any minute. He does, but probably not in the way they were expecting. His face breaks out into a huge smile, and he and Aaron hug it out like only two men can.

 

“He has no sense of direction, but his little swimmers sure knew where they were going,” Johanna says from the doorway. She’s still small, but there is a prominent baby bump. Peeta releases his brother and walks over to Johanna, hugging her as much as her stomach allows him. They say something that I don’t catch, but it’s probably not meant for my ears. They shared something in D.C. that I think will be difficult for any outsider to ever understand. I don’t mind; I’m glad he has someone who was there when everything went down.

 

I’m pulled back to the present when Rye smacks the back of Aaron’s head. “See?”

 

“Cut the shit, Rye!” He sends him a glare, swatting his hand away before turning to me. “I apologize for my infantile brother, Katniss.”

 

Rye makes a grand gesture with his hands. “Oh, using the big words.”

 

Before Aaron has a chance to reply I feel a warm hand on my shoulder, and Johanna sits down on the couch next to Aaron.

 

“Just so you guys know,” she starts, pointing at all of the Mellark brothers. “I’m going to play _all_ the pregnancy trump cards. If I have to carry this thing around I’m going to reap all the benefits.”

 

Rye snorts. “That also means that you are the designated driver until that thing pops out.”

 

“Please, I already am.” She leans into Aaron, and he rests his arm on her shoulder. “If I’d let this one drive we’d never get anywhere.”

 

“I wasn’t the one complaining about going over the speed bumps too fast because I had to pee.”

 

“Oh, right,” she says, getting up from the chair, and excuses herself to use the bathroom.

 

Peeta traces the outside of my arm before speaking. “I’m going to finish up in the kitchen.”

 

“I’ll help,” I say, following him.

 

When he opens the fridge I put my hand on his shoulder. “Hey. Are you okay?”

 

He turns around and embraces me in his arms. “I am.”

 

I let my hands wander up his back. “Are you sure? It’s okay if you’re not.”

 

He puts his mouth by my ear. “Yeah, I promise. Thank you for asking.”

 

The dinner runs smoothly. There is some discussion about the pregnancy, but it doesn’t dominate the evening, which I’m grateful for. Neither Johanna nor Aaron strike me as the type who’ll only talk about about their kids during social gatherings.

 

Before they leave, Aaron and Johanna give Peeta a picture from the ultrasound. To me it’s a black and white grainy picture with something fuzzy that’s supposed to be the baby. I don’t see how that little peanut can grow into a human being, but Peeta looks genuinely grateful and puts it on the fridge.

 

When we go to sleep I rest my head on Peeta’s shoulder and nuzzle my nose in the crook of his neck. At this, he pulls me closer, and I rest my hand over his heart, letting it soothe me. The news of Johanna’s pregnancy serves as a reminder that Peeta and I haven’t had that discussion yet. I don’t know how he’ll react when he realizes that if he stays with me, he’ll never have that. He drifts off pretty quickly, but I can’t bring myself to relax. Will he be okay with not having children with me?

 

We’ve only been together for about six months so it feels too soon to be having that conversation, but at the same time it couldn’t feel longer overdue.

 

It’s the first time that Peeta’s slow breaths and even heartbeat don’t lull me to sleep.

 

* * *

 

I wake up to Peeta’s touch. His lips press quick, soft kisses on my cheek and earlobe. I’m exhausted. It took me hours to fall asleep last night, and I need a little while longer. I turn around in his arms, meeting his eyes.

 

“Hey.” His voice is still raspy from sleep.

 

“Hey.”

 

Before I have a chance to say or do anything else, he’s on top of me, pressing kisses against the side of my neck, right below my ear. He knows that spot is usually my weakness. One of his hands skates to my side, outside of my t-shirt, and he’d probably put it underneath if his own weight didn’t prevent him from pushing it up. It also prevents me from turning to the side.

 

“You’re heavy.”

 

“Sorry,” he says against my skin, pushing himself off me, and I take the opportunity to turn around. At this, his hand loops itself around me, playing with the hem in the front of my shirt as he nuzzles his face in my hair. I’m tired, and I want to go back to sleep.

 

His hand stills. “What’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing, I’m just tired.” _And I’m not in the mood._

 

“Okay.”

 

When I wake up later, I’m alone in Peeta’s bed, and I miss him. I shouldn’t have been so short with him, but I was just so tired.

 

He’s standing in the kitchen with a cup of coffee in his hand. He doesn’t notice me; he looks deep in thought. Probably thinking about what a bitch his girlfriend is.

 

When I come up to him he loops his arm around me, and I lean into him. He’s looking at the ultrasound picture on the fridge. The door is pretty uncluttered, so the picture obviously means a lot.

 

I have to tell him. He can’t go on thinking that he will get that from me. _Does_ he?  

 

“Did you dig this out of the hamper?” he says, inspecting my choice of clothing: a dark green shirt of his.

 

“The clean ones don’t smell like you,” I say, pulling up the shirt to hide my blushing. He only smiles and hugs me a little tighter. Being this close to him soothes me, and I want to stay like this forever.

 

I know we can’t. Will I completely break his heart when I tell him? I don’t want to know the answer, and I’m a coward, so I relish his warmth and steadiness for now.

 

It can wait a little while longer.

 

* * *

 

We waited too long. _I_ waited too long. Now we’ll be forced into it, but it won’t be on our own terms. It will be because Peeta will lose his child. _Again._ And it won’t be an accident. It will be because I killed it.

 

The examination room at the gynecologist looks like any other doctor’s office, but there are pictures of a cross-section of the uterus and a pregnant woman. Why do they even put them up? They’re gross, and I would hope the gynecologist already knows how everything works and what it looks like.

 

I don’t understand. I’ve been taking the pill exactly as I should, following the instructions meticulously. This shouldn’t be happening. This _cannot_ be happening.

 

She says something about contraceptive pills not being one hundred percent effective, statistics, and other numbers. She says it in passing, as if she didn’t just deliver the most devastating news imaginable. I don’t know what to say, so I just stare at her as she rambles about vitamins and other stuff that I will have no need for.

 

I don’t listen. Nothing will change the fact that something is growing inside me, sucking all the energy out of me. I can’t care for it. It would be miserable with me as a parent. Not even Peeta can make up for my shortcomings.

 

“Get rid of it,” I interrupt her. It’s the only coherent sentence I’ve gotten out since she confirmed my suspicions. After three positive home pregnancy tests and a week of wallowing I finally made the appointment.

 

Her lips are moving, but I can’t make out what she’s saying.

 

“Miss Everdeen?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Do you know who the father is?”

 

I just nod.

 

“It _is_ your choice, but I recommend thinking it through before deciding on a course of action.” She means discuss it with Peeta. It will not change anything, but I have no energy to argue with her.

 

I don’t allow myself to break down until I’m home. I drive like in a trance, completely indifferent to everything around me. I don’t even remember the walk from the car to my bedroom. It’s not until I’m in the fetal position with the blanket up to my chin that the tears come.

 

_He won’t understand._

 

_He will hate you._

 

_He will leave you._

 

_You deserve it._

 

_You will be all alone._

 

_Again._

 

“Katniss?” There’s a hand on my forehead. The tears have dried, making it difficult to open my eyes. Did I fall asleep? “Katniss,” he repeats. Why is Peeta here? I don’t recall him mentioning he’d be coming over.

 

When I finally manage to open my eyes, I’m met with his concerned face, only adding to my anxiety.

 

“What are you doing here?” My voice cracks on the last word.

 

“I live here,” he says calmly, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. _What?_ I raise my head, taking in the surroundings. He’s right. In my distracted state I must’ve gone to his place without a second thought. “What’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

“Katniss.” His concern only adds to my guilt. “It’s not nothing.”

 

“Cramps,” I lie.

 

He doesn’t believe me—I can see it. “You’ve been like this for weeks. You barely talk to me, you don’t sleep, and you didn’t even know where you were.”

 

I’ve been having a lot of nightmares lately, but I didn’t realize Peeta had noticed.

 

I can’t look at him. I’ll break. Instead I take the easy way out, turning around and pulling up the blanket over my head. He puts his hand on my arm, urging me to turn back around. “Please, Peeta. I’m tired. Can’t you just let me sleep?” I sound like a child, but I don’t care. I don’t want to have this conversation.

 

He exhales. “Where’s Sanders?”

 

“At my house.” I can’t even take care of my dog. How am I supposed to care for a child?

 

“Okay. You sleep, and I’ll get him. We’ll talk later tonight.”

 

I don’t respond, pretending to have already fallen back asleep.

 

When I wake up again it’s dark. Peeta’s sitting on the couch, a pencil in his hand roaming over a piece of paper in the dim light. He rests his foot on his knee, using it to prop up his sketchbook, while Sanders lies underneath the table. He looks so peaceful; I hate to interrupt him.

 

“Hey.”

 

“Hey.” He looks up from his sketch, a forlorn look on his face.

 

“What are you drawing?” I say, sitting down next to him with my hands on my lap.

 

“You.” He hands me the sheet. It’s a close-up of my face, and I’m apparently sleeping. Is that how he sees me? It’s definitely me, but he makes me out to be some sort of beautiful, ethereal being.

 

“Creep.” This earns me a small smile, and I lean into his shoulder as he rests his arm around me. His warmth is soothing, but it doesn’t help the sinking feeling in my stomach.

 

He doesn’t have to ask; I can feel the question in his body. The touch of his fingers tracing patterns on my arm is not as soft as it usually is, and his whole body is slightly strained. His hand skates from my arm up to the back of my head, threading through my hair, and I close my eyes. I’m selfish. I let myself enjoy his touch a little longer.

 

I haven’t thought this through. How do I start? _I’m pregnant, but I’m getting an abortion. Just thought I’d give you a heads up._

 

“Peeta. We haven’t discussed uhm… the future.”

 

His hand goes still. I nuzzle my nose in his neck, craving his closeness.

 

“You mean… like marriage?”

 

Yes, that’s a good place to start. “Uhm, yeah.”

 

He exhales. “I, ah… It’s not a big deal for me. I mean, if you want to do it we can do it, but isn’t it a bit early?”

 

How can he be so calm and rational about everything? Can’t he have at least _one_ flaw that makes this a little easier? The tears are streaming down my cheeks, soaking his shirt.

 

“No, please don’t cry. I’m sorry. If you want to, we’ll do it. A ring, a big wedding, the whole nine yards. _You’re_ the only thing that matters. That’s all I care about.” His voice is desperate, trying to get me to calm down, but his concerns only make me even sadder. How can I break his heart? He doesn’t deserve this. Not again.

 

“It’s not that,” I manage to get out, shaking my head.

 

He swipes his thumb underneath my eye. “Then please tell me what’s wrong,” he pleads.

 

“It’s nothing.” I don’t want to discuss this. At all.

 

“No, it’s not. You’re scaring me, Katniss. Please tell me what’s wrong. I can’t fix it if I don’t know what it is.” He’s getting desperate. He’s trying to keep it together, but his red eyes and shaking voice give him away. I wish he could fix this.

 

“What about… kids?” I don’t know where the courage comes from to ask him, but I guess that’s what it all comes down to.

 

He swallows. “I don’t know what I’ll think in a couple of years, but I don’t think I’m ready to become a parent right now. Why?” He pauses, searching for my eyes, but I can’t face him. “Are you…?” He doesn’t have to finish his question—I know what he’s asking.

 

I can’t lie to his face, so I look down and shake my head. He doesn’t want this child, and he’ll be better off without it.

 

He tilts my head up, forcing me to look him in the eye. “Is this what you’ve been thinking about? Are you worried about the future?” I don’t say anything, so he wraps his arms around me, rocking me. “Katniss. I know we haven’t talked about this before, but I don’t want you to feel any pressure. About anything. Whatever we decide to do, we’ll do it at your pace. Together.”

 

I lock my hands around him, holding him desperately tight, like he might slip away. Maybe he will. “I’m…” _Say it. Say it. Say it._ “I’m sorry.”

 

His hand finds its way back my hair, and he kisses my head. “You have nothing to be sorry about. I love you.”

 

“I love you, too.”

 

“Let me get you a glass of water.”

 

“Okay.”

 

When he opens the fridge the picture from the ultrasound stares back at me—taunting me, daring me to tell him. He’s taken Johanna’s pregnancy very well. I was afraid that he’d only be reminded of the things he missed with Charlie, but he seems genuinely happy about becoming an uncle.

 

This will destroy him. All the progress he’s made will be in vain. He won’t be able to change it anyway, so it’s better if he doesn’t know.

 

When he comes back the tears are streaming down my cheeks again. I can’t help it.

 

“Hey. Come here.” He envelops me again, and I’m grateful he can’t see my face.

 

“I’m sorry,” I croak, stroking my cheek on his shirt. He takes my legs, pulling them over his lap. I rest my head on his chest, revelling in his warmth.

 

“You can tell me anything. Whatever it is. You know that, right?”

 

I know I can, and that’s what makes it so difficult, keeping this from him. The worst part is, he’d probably handle it so much better than I ever could.

 

“Are you sure there’s nothing else?”

 

I can’t tell him. He will live with the knowledge of losing two children. No. I can’t do that to him. I will take the pain so he doesn’t have to.

 

“Yeah,” I whisper. “I guess I’m a little emotional right now. It’s that time of the month,” I lie.

 

“Do you need anything? A warm pillow? I have ice cream.”

 

“No. Just you.”

 

* * *

 

This is it. I’m doing this. I have no one I can rely on right now. No one knows. It’s for the best. I was never meant for this. It would only grow up hating me.

 

It’s never been mine. If anyone deserves a child it’s Peeta. _Peeta._ He’s already lost so much that I can’t bear the thought of telling him he’s losing another one. It’s better if he doesn’t know. There are pictures of smiling families hanging on the wall. My eyes go directly to the father. He’s is holding one of the kids in his arms while the other clings to his leg. He’s blonde, which only makes me think of Peeta. _He_ should be having that. How old would Charlie be now? Seven, eight? Just like the kid holding onto her father’s legs in the picture. I know I’m torturing myself, but I can’t help picturing Peeta picking up his child to pose for that picture. The baby is a little cranky, but his soft touch and comforting voice calms it. The little girl tries to get his attention, a little jealous that her baby sister or brother gets all of the attention. But Peeta is, if anything, always fair and reassures the girl that if she behaves they’ll get ice cream later. The mother—I can’t see her face—lovingly observes the exchange, leaning in to kiss him on the lips before they both turn their heads to the camera.

 

He was denied that life once. Now _I_ have the key to it inside me, and I’m getting rid of it. This child belongs to Peeta; I’m only the vessel. He should have a say in it. At least, he should know what he’s losing. I’m a coward. Selfish. I haven’t told him because _I’m_ too weak. I’ve been convincing myself that I’m doing this for him, but I’m not. I’ve been using him as an excuse to avoid the conversation. _I’m_ too weak to face him with this decision.

 

I was too scared to confront Prim about her behavior after Dad died. I was too weak to do it, afraid that talking about Dad would rip up wounds that I’d worked so hard to heal. If I had, she might have been alive today. I can’t repeat that mistake.

 

_I have to tell Peeta._

 

I can’t go through with this without him knowing. I can’t rob him of at least saying goodbye. I must stand up too quickly, because the room starts spinning. Only it doesn’t stop after a couple of seconds. Dark spots invade my vision. They grow larger until I can only see through a tiny sliver. I think I hear someone calling for me, but it’s like they’re in another room.

 

Pain radiates from my stomach out to the tips of my fingers and toes. Every sense is invaded by this intense pain.

 

Then darkness.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I appreciate your comments. <3


	17. XVII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> @papofglencoe Not only does this fabulous lady beta this story, she's an amazing friend. Without you, this story would not be what it is today. Thank you! <3

Absence of sound. Absence of light. _Silence. Darkness._ No, not complete darkness. Small dots of light, like stars, dance around me. Every time I try to catch one it darts away from my hand, anticipating my every move and evading my attempts at grabbing it. I don’t even know why I want them—I just do. They’re the only glimmer of hope in this dark world. Maybe they’ll lead me to a better place, where my senses aren’t invaded by this dark hopelessness.

 

I’m alone. I know it. I can feel it. Is this my hell? A hell that I created for myself, impossible to escape. The lights leave, casting me into darkness. There’s no point in trying any longer. I let the darkness completely consume me. This is what it’ll be like. Constantly chasing after something I’ll never catch.

 

It’s easier just to give up.

 

* * *

 

It’s back. The light. I don’t like it. It harasses me, disturbing any chance of piece. I can’t ignore it. I have to listen. _Listen._ The silence is gone, replaced by a tauntingly regular beep and an unrecognizable mumble. _Shut up._ I want to be left alone. They won’t leave me alone. I hate this new light. It’s trying too hard to convince me it’s good. It’s not. Nothing is good.

 

The mumbling intensifies. If I put my heart into it I might be able to sort it out, but I don’t care. The loneliness is safe. I can count on it. It’s constant, never wanting anything in return. But the deceiving light penetrates its way through the darkness, invading my every sense. It comes back. And then goes away again.

 

* * *

 

It’s gone. Whatever existed inside me is gone. I knew before the doctor told me. Call it some reverse maternal instinct or whatever shit everyone is always talking about, but I knew. I felt it.

 

I shouldn’t care so much, but I do. I was going to kill it anyway. So why do I feel so empty?

 

Because half of it was Peeta. That bundle of cells in my womb was half him. And now that’s gone. Not in some better place—just gone.

 

And I fucking deserve it.

 

After the doctor leaves I manage to find my phone. There is a string of missed calls and text messages—all from Peeta.

 

_Peeta: Are you working today?_

 

_Peeta: Where are you?_

 

_Peeta: If you want to be alone, that’s fine, just let me know you’re okay. Please._

 

And then it goes on, the level of desperation increasing for every text. I don’t even hesitate when I find his number in my contact list and press the call button. He’s worried sick, and I have to let him know where I am. The relief in his voice only adds to my guilt. I made him this concerned, and I will make him feel even worse when I tell him the truth. Instead of answering his questions I tell him where I am. I think he’s already halfway out the door when we end the call.

 

How do I tell him this? Where do I even start? I can’t put it off any longer. He deserves the truth; I’ve already kept it from him too long.

 

I don’t know how long it takes for him to get here. All I know is that when I see him coming through the door my heart swells with both relief and fear. Relief that I won’t have to keep this secret anymore, and fear at how he’ll react to it.

 

“Hey,” is the only word I manage to get out. It sounds weak. I _am_ weak.

 

Instead of replying, he approaches the bed, enveloping me in his arms. Instinctively I return his embrace, letting my fingers dig into his back and my chin rest on his shoulder.

 

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Peeta.”

 

He threads his hand through my hair, pressing me closer to him. Tears are now streaming down my cheeks; I can’t stop it.

 

“What happened? The doctors wouldn’t tell me anything.” He releases me, looking me straight in the eyes, his cheeks flustered. “What’s going on, Katniss?”

 

“I… I lost it.” That’s all I can muster under his intense stare, and I break away from it.

 

“What? What did you lose?”

 

This is it. This is the moment he’ll finally realize who I really am. A lying, deceitful shell of a person who can’t seem to do anything other than hurt him.

 

“I was pregnant.” The words sound weird coming from my mouth. I can’t seem to wrap my mind around it, and neither can my body. _Will I ever?_

 

He stiffens, shocked by what I just told him. His expression is blank, and I don’t know what to make of it. I expect him to back away from me, not wanting to have anything to do with me. But he doesn’t. Instead, he hugs me again, embracing me in his arms and kissing my hair. Relief washes through me. _He doesn’t hate me._ His hot breath close to my ear calms me.

 

When he releases me he brushes his thumb against my cheek, swiping away some of the tears. “I know what you’re thinking, and don’t even for a second think that this is your fault.”

 

It _is_ my fault.

 

“You don’t hate me?”

 

“Why... Why would I hate you?”

 

“Because… Because I lied to you.”

 

He looks at me in confusion. _Of course._ He thinks I didn’t know either. That’s why he’s not upset with me. “What… What are you saying? Wasn’t it…?” His voice is shaking; he’s afraid of the answer. I am too.

 

“I knew.” I release myself from his embrace; if he’s hugging me when I tell him I don’t know if I’ll be able to hold it together. Like I’ll corrupt him with my lies. “I knew I was pregnant.”

 

His eyes widen before before he the information sinks in. “How long?”

 

“A couple of weeks.”

 

He’s doing the math in his head. Now he knows that I knew about this pregnancy when we had our talk. And that I lied to his face about it.

 

The seconds before he speaks feel like an eternity. “Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice is cold; he’s already slipping away from me.

 

“I didn’t want to hurt you.”

 

“How…” He drags both of his hands through his hair. “Why would I be hurt?”

 

“Because I was going to get rid of it. That’s where I was when… when this happened.”

 

Silence. Excruciating silence.

 

“You didn’t tell me because you were going to have an abortion anyway?”

 

“Yes.” I had changed my mind about it, but it doesn’t change the fact that I was planning on going through with it without ever discussing it with him.

 

Standing up, he moves to the only window in the room. As he drags both of his hands through his hair again, I can only imagine the hurt and anger on his face. In a way, I’m relieved he’s not facing me right now.

 

“I’m sorry.” It comes out as pathetic as I feel, but it’s the only thing I have to offer him. After lying to him, going behind his back, and planning an abortion without talking to him, all I have for him is a meager apology.

 

“Why? Why didn’t you let me in?”

 

“I… I don’t know. I thought that you… that maybe you wouldn’t want me to go through with it.”

 

There’s anger, yes, but mostly sadness in his eyes when he turns around. The way he’s looking at me hurts like hell, but it’s the least I can do for him now. The courtesy of not looking away when he confronts me.

 

“Why would I….? How…? Isn’t it obvious? I would have been there every step of the way if that’s what you wanted to do. Do you really think that little of me?”

 

He couldn’t be more wrong. I think _more_ of him than I do of anyone else. That’s why I wanted to spare him this pain.

 

“No. I should have told you. I’m so sorry.”

 

“Where’s your car?”

 

“What?”

 

“I went to your house to look for you, but your car wasn’t there. So, where is it?”

 

“It’s at the clinic.”

 

“Okay, I’ll drive it home for you. Sanders probably needs a walk anyway.”

 

His movements are almost robotic, emotionless, as he tracks down the keys to my car. I wish I’d have them nearby so that I could hand them to him in person. I’d do anything for any type of physical connection right now. “Peeta.”

 

“I’ll be back. I just… I can’t be here right now.”

 

On his way out he bumps into the doctor entering the room, and he mutters an apology before leaving.

 

“Was that the father?” she asks, settling down in the chair next to my hospital bed.

 

“Yes.”

 

“Boyfriend?”

 

“Probably not.” I can’t stop the tears that come when I say the words that make me realize our relationship might be over. And it’s all my fault.

 

The doctor covers her hand over mine, but it does nothing to console me. It’s clear that she’s uncomfortable with this, and I hate breaking down in front of her. She scrunches her nose, probably thinking Peeta’s an asshole  for leaving me here, but she doesn’t comment on it.

 

“ _I’m_ the asshole,” I murmur.

 

“What?”

 

“Nothing.”

 

Peeta keeps his word and comes back to the hospital after about an hour and he promises to drive me home from the hospital when it’s time to leave. He wants to be a part of this, even if it’s pushing the knife further into his heart.

 

He holds my hand for support when we exit the hospital, but it’s not out of love or compassion; it’s a chore. I don’t complain about it. I’ll take whatever closeness I can from him.

 

* * *

 

We don’t talk, at least not more than we absolutely have to. Striking up a conversation is intimidating. I don’t know if it’ll turn into a fight and he’ll eventually leave. But the fact that he didn’t walk away from me that day gives me a tiny glimmer of hope. Hope that we might be able to fix this. That _I_ can fix this. This is _my_ fault, and _I_ need to convince him that he can trust me again.

 

I gently knock on the door to his studio before slowly pushing it open. Sanders lies only inches from Peeta’s feet, and I’m amazed that he hasn’t tripped over the dog. In a fight it’s obvious whose side Sanders would be on. Not that I blame him. I know I messed up; I just hope Peeta eventually will forgive me.

 

“Hey. I made dinner.”

 

He doesn’t even look up from his painting. “Okay, I’ll be right there.” _Longest conversation today._

 

I don’t enjoy cooking, but when I do it, the result isn’t half bad. When Peeta emerges from his studio I’ve already set the table. I debated whether or not to light candles but decided against it; that’d be too much.

 

When he tastes the pasta I made, it’s the first time since I don’t know when that he says something without prompting. “It’s good.”

 

“Thanks.” Here goes nothing. “See, this is not spaghetti; it’s bucatini. There’s a hole running through it so the sauce doesn’t slide right off. It makes all the difference in the world. Or so I’ve heard.”

 

He exhales. No. _Was that a chuckle?_ He remembers my first time in this apartment. He hasn’t cast that memory away. It means something to me, and apparently it does to him too. The slim possibility of this being salvageable makes the corners of my mouth tug up.

 

Peeta sets down the fork on the table, his face sombering. “What are you doing, Katniss?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“This.” He gestures to the table. “Making dinner. Talking about one of our first dates. Do you expect me to suddenly just forget about everything?”

 

“Of course not. I want you to talk. This silent treatment you’ve been giving me the past few weeks needs to stop. Tell me what you’re thinking. Yell at me. Do whatever you want, but don’t keep everything inside.”

 

He snorts. “Isn’t that the pot calling the kettle black.” _Okay, I deserved that._ “I’m sorry,” he says. That was uncalled for.”

 

“No, it wasn’t.”

 

An uncomfortable silence falls between us. I won’t force him to talk if he doesn’t want to. I want him to _want_ to talk to me.

 

“I’m not angry with you.” He exhales. “I’m disappointed you decided how I would react and then based your decisions on that. Even if you were so sure I was going to fuck it up, why didn’t you just roll the dice on the off chance you might be wrong?”

 

I can’t argue with him. Instead I let him get everything off his chest.

 

“What kind of vibe do I give off that makes women think I can’t respect their decisions?” _I know exactly which other woman he’s referring to._ “Whatever decision you’d made, I would’ve supported you. But the fact that you didn’t feel comfortable enough to let me in on what was going on... it’s a slap in the face. You didn’t seek my advice or comfort in what must’ve been one of the most difficult decisions of your life.” He pauses, and I don’t want to say anything because I think he needs to say this. “Outside my family and Johanna, you’re the only one I’ve shared Charlie with. That’s because I trust you.” Another breath, and it weighs a million tons. “I guess we’re not in the same place in this relationship.”

 

“Of course I trust you, Peeta. I trust you with my life. I love you.”

 

“I love you too. Despite everything, I still love you.” He’s disappointed that he feels that way, and it kills me.

 

I don’t want to ask him because I’m afraid of the answer. But I still need to know. “Where are you going with this?”

 

“I don’t know. That’s the point.”

 

I don’t push him any further; he’s said more to me tonight than he has for the past month. We spend the rest of the dinner in silence. It’s not comfortable, but I won’t force him to talk anymore if he doesn’t want to.

 

It’s not until we clear the table that we talk again. My hand accidentally brushes against his as we rinse off our plates. At the contact he automatically backs away from me like I’m a carrier of a contagious disease.

 

“I’m not toxic.”

 

“I know that. I didn’t…”

 

“I know. It just... hurts.” I think it’s the most honest I’ve been with him about this whole situation. He has every right to be mad at me, but I can’t deny that his distance has affected me. “Peeta. Tell me. Tell me what’s going on in your mind.”

 

“ _I don’t know!_ I don’t know what’s going on, alright? I don’t know how to deal with this.”

 

“I never meant to hurt you. I hope you understand that.”

 

His shoulders relax. I think he believes me.

 

“I do.” That’s all the answer I get. He doesn’t say anything else, but I’m relieved that he understands at least that I didn’t do it out of ill will.

 

“I guess what you need to ask yourself is if you think you’ll ever be able to forgive me.”

 

He drops the dish in his hand and leans on his hands on the counter. “I don’t know.”

 

There it is.

 

The deathblow. The words that convince me there is nothing left for me here. If he can’t forgive me, there is nothing left. He’s not coming back to me. There’s no point in even trying.

 

I have to force the words out. “Then I guess that’s your answer.”

 

Placing my hand on his arm, he turns to me. He looks absolutely heartbroken, his eyes troubled and shoulders sagging. He didn’t want it to come to this either, and it hurts him as much as it hurts me.

 

I stand on my toes, capturing his lips in a kiss. At first I don’t think he’ll return it, but he surprises me by sliding his hands up my arms, grabbing them as he takes my bottom lip between his. The kiss isn’t passionate or desperate. It’s filled with emotions, but it’s all the wrong ones. I try to savor every second of it, knowing it’s the last. I hope he understands that _I’m_ responsible for this. _I_ fucked it up because _I’m_ incapable of caring for the people that I love. This is not his failure—it’s mine.

 

“I’m sorry,” I tell him.

 

I’m sorry for not letting him in on what was going on. I’m sorry that he never met Charlie. I’m sorry he will never get to meet what would have been his second child.

 

“I know.”

 

* * *

 

I can’t believe I’d gotten used to a life without Peeta in it. How was I content before him? I hate to sound like a cliché, but I bury myself in work. I even take on chores that I usually avoid, like reading first-year students’ lab reports. Anything to keep my mind off him.

 

I stop taking long walks with Sanders; instead we run. I can concentrate on my pace rather than him.

 

Someone is on the porch when I get back. My first thought is that it’s _him_ —pathetic. Of course not. She could’ve been there for almost an hour if she came right after I left.

 

Pulling my earbuds out, I walk up the few steps. “Hey.”

 

Her stomach has grown since I last saw her, but other than that her frame is still small. She’s shorter than me, but she still scares me half to death. I don’t think she’s ever liked me, and especially not now.

 

“Hey,” Johanna says curtly.

 

I remember what she said to me the first time we spoke about her planting an axe in my face if I ever hurt Peeta. Forget my face—I already have one in my heart.

 

“Can I come in?”

 

Opening the door, I let Sanders in the house. I don’t gesture for her to come in too, but she doesn’t need an invitation. To be honest, I’m not comfortable having her in my house, but I have no reason to be rude to her.

 

She doesn’t speak again until I’ve closed the door and kicked off my shoes. “What the fuck are you doing?”

 

“What?” I think I know what she’s talking about, but I don’t want to indulge her.

 

“You know what went down in D.C., and you still do this? He was so fucking happy, and you destroyed that for him. Why?”

 

It’s not like I destroyed it on purpose. “It’s not your business.” I don’t want to talk about it, especially not with her.

 

“It _is_ my business, because he’s my best friend. I’ve known him longer than my own fucking boyfriend and the father of my child.” She pauses. “And instead of trying to get him back, you just give up,” she concludes, plopping down heavily on the couch in the living room.

 

“I didn’t ‘just give up.’ He doesn’t even know if he can forgive me.”

 

“Exactly. _He doesn’t know_. So why aren’t you convincing him that he _can_? I’d pegged you for a lot of things; a quitter wasn’t among them.”

 

“Why do you care so much about this? I thought you didn’t even like me.”

 

“I don’t. You’re a little hard to swallow.” _What does that even mean?_ “But I met Peeta when he hit rock bottom, and this is pretty fucking close. He’s miserable. And I refuse to get familiar with his crying again.” She looks around the room. “Where’s your bathroom? This thing is having a boxing match with my bladder.”

 

“Through the hallway, next to the bedroom.”

 

When she waddles away to the bathroom I make my way to the kitchen, opening a bottle of water and chugging down half of it. Is she right? Did I fight hard enough for Peeta? I miss him. I think Sanders misses him too. And not only for the food he slipped him all the time.

 

“You know, if you don’t do anything Delly might be the one picking up the pieces. I’m sure she’s very eager to lick his wounds.” She pauses. “And other parts.”

 

The mere thought of them together must bring a look of disdain to my face, because Johanna seems content with my reaction.

 

“That’s right. Little Miss Sunshine is sniffing around his ass like a dog in heat. I’d find it funny if he wasn’t so damn sad all the time. He blames himself, you know. He thinks he’s doing something to make all the women in his life not trust him.“

 

“That’s not it.”

 

“I know. That’s why _you_ need to fix this. Even if you don’t get back together, you need to make him realize that this is not his fault. Or I will hold you responsible for his misery.”

 

Then she leaves. She doesn’t even say goodbye, but since she doesn’t strike me as the type, I don’t take it personally.

 

* * *

 

I let myself in through the security door in Peeta’s building, but I stop myself when I’m about to open the door to his apartment. I can’t just walk right in; I don’t have the right anymore. What am I even doing here? I don’t know how to start. All I know is that Johanna was right. That whatever happens between us, he must understand that this is not on him; it’s on me.

 

Instead of standing here doubting myself and struggling with what I’m going to say that will only lead to me leaving, I quickly rap my knuckles against the door.

 

But it’s not Peeta who opens the door; it’s Rye.

 

“Oh. Hey.”

 

“Hey.” He looks uncertain, as if he doesn’t know how he’s supposed to react to my presence.

 

“Is… Is he here?”

 

He drags his hand through his blond curls. “Uhm, yeah.”

 

“How is he?”

 

“Yeah. Not so good.” He scratches the side of his jaw. It’s obvious how much he cares for Peeta, and it’s probably killing him to see his brother hurting. _Again._

 

I can’t tell if he’s upset with me, too, or if he just doesn’t know how to act around me. He doesn’t _look_ angry. It takes a lot to make Peeta angry; maybe it’s a trait he shares with Rye.

 

“Can I come in?”

 

He turns around, looking at Peeta, I assume. “Hey, you have company.”

 

“Whoever it is, I’m not interested.” The sound of Peeta makes my heart soar. His voice is filled with sadness, but I savor his presence.

 

“I’m gonna play the big brother card here and make this decision _for_ you.”

 

Rye grabs his jacket from the hanger, and he’s out the door before I have a chance to react.

 

“I’m fucking warning you, Rye. Don’t—” Peeta stops himself when he sees me. He’s as gorgeous as ever—strong shoulders, toned arms, intense blue eyes—but he looks just as miserable as Johanna said. I want to take him in my arms and comfort him, but I suppress the instinct.

 

“Hey. Can I come in?”

 

He doesn’t say anything, but he doesn’t slam the door in my face either. After a couple of seconds that feel like an eternity, he finally answers. “Yeah,” he whispers, turning around and walking back into the apartment.

 

He removes two small glasses and a bottle of transparent liquid from the coffee table. It’s not like Peeta to turn to alcohol during difficult times. Is this what he’s been doing the past week? Drowning his sorrows?

 

“Two.”

 

“What?”

 

“I’ve had two. I’m not drunk, and you don’t have to worry.”

 

“You don’t have to explain yourself to me, Peeta.” He doesn’t. I don’t have the right to worry about him anymore. But I still do.

 

He pauses his movements. “Right.”

 

The silence between us is uncomfortable as hell, and it takes a while for me to realize he’s waiting for me to say something.

 

“So the reason I came here was that I wanted to…” Fuck, I’m so bad with words. “Uhm… see how you were doing.”

 

“Johanna sent you?”

 

“Ah, no. Not really. I mean, she came to my house, yes, but she didn’t _send_ me. She told you she talked to me?”

 

“No, but I figured as much,” he says, putting the bottle in one of the cupboards.

 

This is going all wrong. I don’t want to talk about Johanna. I want to talk about _us_ . Is there still an _us?_

 

“Listen, whatever happens you need to know that the reason I wanted to get an—”

 

“I’m going to stop you right there, Katniss. You need to stop thinking I’m mad at you for wanting to get an abortion. You don’t need my consent, nor do I want you to feel like you have to. I just wish you’d trusted me enough to discuss it with me first. Fuck, I asked you straight up.”

 

“I know. And I should have. That was _my_ call, and I’ll regret it for the rest of my life. But it had nothing to do with not trusting you. That’s why I came here. To tell you that the reason I chose to do what I did is because of who _I_ am. You never did anything wrong, and I hate for you to walk around thinking that.”

 

He crosses his arms over his chest. “So why did you? What it is with you that made you feel like you couldn’t tell me?” He doesn’t believe me. He still thinks that this is his fault.

 

“I don’t know. When you said you weren’t ready to become a parent I could see how disappointed you’d be in me for letting this happen.”

 

“No one _let_ this happen. We took precautions. Sometimes these things just… happen.”

 

“I know. I just… I got scared. I didn’t know what to do. Every time I thought about telling you I just got more and more confused.”

 

I must sound like a babbling mess, making no sense at all. How do I explain something I can’t even understand myself? Of course I should’ve told him. Why didn’t I?

 

“And after? You didn’t think that I would have noticed that something was off with you? You’d keep it from me forever? Like Cashmere intended to do.”

 

Fuck. That hurts. Putting me in the same category as Cashmere. But I guess it’s true. I’m no better than her. Tears prickle my eyes. Why am I such a wuss now? I can’t have a conversation with my boyfriend— _ex-_ boyfriend—without crying.

 

I swipe away some of the tears with the back of my hands; I won’t break down now. Peeta doesn’t offer me his arms in consolation. I’ve truly lost him. The realization hits me like a ton of bricks. I can’t even stand up anymore. Instead my legs weaken, and I end up on the floor.

 

Warmth surrounds me, and it takes a couple of seconds before I realize it’s Peeta’s embrace. But I’m not foolish enough to think it’s because he’s forgiven me. He does it because he’s a kind person and he offers his kindness even to those who have hurt him the most.

 

“I’m sorry, Peeta. I’m so sorry.”

 

He says nothing, instead pushing my head against his chest and rocking me back and forth. _He’s_ the one who should be upset, but instead he’s comforting me.

 

“Me too.”

 

“I changed my mind.”

 

“What?”

 

“In the waiting room. I was on my way to tell you when...”

 

“Why?”

 

“I thought you deserved to know.”

 

“What made you change your mind?”

 

“I… I just couldn’t do it. I needed you to know.”

 

I turn my head up to look at him, trying to gauge his reaction. The look in his eyes tells me everything. It’s empty. I’ve lost him. I’ve truly lost him. I turned him into this. He’s better off without me.

 

He presses me against him again, my ear against his heart. It’s beating erratically.

 

He exhales. “I think you need to figure this out, Katniss. You don’t even seem to know why you decided not to tell me, or why you changed your mind about it.”

 

He’s right. He’s always right. He knows me better than I know myself.

 

“But,” he says, “you need to do it on your own.”

 

_No, no, no, no._ He can’t do this. I forbid him. His body turns, and my hands wrap themselves around him, clutching him to me. Like I’d be strong enough to keep him from prying himself free from my grip. “No. Please don’t do this. I love you. I love you so fucking much.”

 

Silence. His pulse throbs against my cheek. That’s all I can concentrate on. “Katniss. Don’t make this any harder than it already is.” His voice is thick, filled with regret. He doesn’t want this either.

 

“You don’t want this, Peeta.”

 

“No, I don’t. But what kind of relationship is this if you can’t tell me something huge like this?”

 

He’s right. I can’t argue with him on this. I’d break up with me, too. But it doesn’t make it hurt any less. We stay in this position a while before I speak again. “I know I hurt you, but please understand that was never my intention.”

 

“I do. I’m not angry with you, Katniss. I don’t think you’re a bad person.”

 

He _should_ be angry with me. But this is one of the reasons I love him so much. He understands me. And I know that this is so difficult for him. So I won’t fight him on this, despite the fact that it’s killing me. Because he deserves it. Because he deserves to be happy. And if he can’t be that with me, then I have to respect that. He’s earned that much from me.

 

So I let him go.

 

* * *

 

It takes twenty-four whole hours before I realize what’s happened. I’ve been trying to convince myself that a breakup isn’t that big of a deal; I’ve never been one to sulk over a man. But it’s not just _any_ man. It’s Peeta. I loved him.

 

I _love_ him.

 

Maybe he doesn’t want _me_ anymore but that doesn’t stop me from wanting _him_ back. It’s only been a day, but I ache for him. It physically hurts not to have him around me. We’ve been apart for longer before, but this is different. He doesn’t belong to me anymore, and it’s so much more painful than I could’ve ever imagined.

 

I take Sanders for a short walk, deliberately avoiding Haymitch’s house. He’ll see right through me, and I know he’ll lure the truth out of me. I don’t want to talk about it; it doesn’t help me. The only thing that can make this better is getting Peeta back. And he made it pretty clear that that’s not happening.

 

I’m halfway through the bottle of wine before I finally give into the tears. I know I shouldn’t but I’m so lonely. A year ago I’d be fine with that, but now it’s unbearable.

 

Sanders comes up to me, placing his head on my lap. This dog has some sort of supernatural power, seemingly sensing my inner turmoil and then jumping up on the couch. Like he knows I won’t chastise him for it. Instead I cry into his soft fur, letting his warmth put me at ease.

 

I must’ve fallen asleep, because I wake up on the couch with a sore neck. Sanders is nowhere to be seen.

 

I find him in the kitchen, lying in front of his empty bowl. I’d never forget to feed him, but Peeta always made sure there were some treats in it. I slide down next to him, resting against the cabinet and ruffle his head. “You miss Peeta, don’t you?”

 

He lets out a whimper at the sound of Peeta’s name.

 

“Yeah.” Once again I’m filled with this immense sadness. “I miss him too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoy this story, please drop me a line and let me know. I'm maxwellandlovelace on tumblr.


	18. XVIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you @papofglencoe for fixing this for me. This story would not be what it is without you! <3

Strong hands graze the outside of my arms. His lips latch onto one of my nipples, sucking on it. It’s not long before he moves down south, pressing kisses down my stomach and tugging at the waistband of my panties. _No, not happening._

 

My hands go for his shoulders, nudging him to the side, and I crawl on top of him, pressing our groins together. He lets out a hiss, apparently liking that I take charge. Good.

 

I give him the same treatment, kissing my way down his taut abdomen and tugging at his underwear. Lifting his hips, he helps me pull them off, and I don’t hesitate to take him in my mouth. He’s already hard, and he moans his approval at my initiative.

 

When I swirl my tongue around the head, he moans again. “Fuck, that’s good.”

 

I let him go. “Shut up,” I say, reaching for my pants on the floor and shedding my panties in the process.

 

“Bossy, are we?” he winks as I roll the condom on his cock.

 

“No, just not in the mood to chitchat.”

 

“Fine by me,” he grunts as I lower myself onto him. If he was going to say something else it drowns in an muffled mess of groans of pleasure. Bracing my hands on his chest, my fingers thread through the thin blond hair as I ride him. I don’t care how long it takes. I have one thing on my mind: coming.

 

When his moans grow louder and his grip on my hips tightens, I rub my clit. Between the movement of his cock and the aid of my fingers I feel the telltale signs of an impending orgasm. From the spot where I touch myself a dull tingling wave slowly pushes its way through my entire body. I don’t think he notices. Hell, I barely noticed. Instead, I rock my hips faster, hoping he’ll get there soon.

 

I just want to go home.

 

As soon as I feel him start shuddering I clench around him, trying get him there faster. It doesn’t take long before he spills into the condom.

 

Climbing off him I reach for my clothes on the floor, and when his hand plants itself on my shoulder, I try to suppress the instinct of jerking away.

 

“What’s the hurry, babe?” I don’t like that he calls me babe. Peeta never did. _Fuck._ Now he’s back in my head again.

 

“I need to get home,” I mumble, pulling the shirt over my head.

 

“You can stay a little while if you want.”

 

He seems so sincere that instead of just shrugging him off I look at him. He’s pulled up the blanket over his lower body, exposing his chiseled pecs. I can’t really see his eyes, but I remember them from before.

 

He seems like a genuinely nice guy. He’s just not what I want. Or what I need.

 

“I have to go.” I hope that he gets the message. This night was about one thing, a physical need. Another time it will be the same need, but with someone else. Or no one.

 

“Okay.” There’s a little sorrow in his voice, and I feel for him, but I can’t lead him on. This was a one-time thing.

 

“Thanks for tonight. It was great,” I lie.

 

I swiftly put on the rest of my clothes and leave before he tries to convince me to stay again.

 

After taking a cab back home, Sanders greets me when I enter the house. Not so much greet, as lifting his head from where he rests on the floor. He keeps observing me as I kick off my shoes and put my coat on the hanger.

 

“Don’t you dare judge me. You’d eat your own shit if I’d let you.”

 

He doesn’t seem to get it—why would he?—so his eyes follow me even as I pass him in the hallway on my way to the bathroom. Even as I enter my bathroom through the bedroom he follows me, parking his ass in the door opening as I brush my teeth. I can’t take him staring at me, criticizing me. Instead, I close the door, leaving him outside.

 

Taking a quick shower, I rid myself of tonight’s activities. For a couple of minutes I could focus on something else. Something other than how empty my life is, but now it comes back full-force. The tears mix with the water as it pours down my face. Was it worth it? A night of alcohol and sex that’s never going to lead to anything else. Yes. Whatever can get my mind off him, even for the shortest amount of time, is worth it.

 

When I exit the bathroom a wave of guilt hits me when I spot Sanders lying on the floor next to the bed. His loyalty and love are unconditional, even when I treat him like crap. That’s why I don’t scold him when he jumps up on the bed with me.

 

* * *

 

It’s too early when I wake up. I forgot to close the blinds last night, and now I’m paying the price. The bright sunlight shines through the window, blinding me. Should I get up and close them or just turn around? It would be nice with a darker room, but the bed is cozy. Plus, my head is pounding like a fucking sledgehammer.

 

Instead of getting up I pull the covers over my head, letting me sleep a little longer. The banging in my head must be from the alcohol last night. I don’t regret it, though. I know I’ll never see that guy again, but he did the trick. For about five minutes my mind wasn’t occupied by Peeta. But it is now. It’s been months since we broke up, but I still can’t get him out of my head. He’s there every hour of my day, reminding me of how I managed to screw up the one thing that was right in my life. I can’t deny it; he was the only thing I’ve ever done right, and now he’s gone.

 

The noise continues, but it doesn’t feel like it’s in my head anymore. It’s not. It’s from the front door. Should I get out of the bed? Probably. Do I want to? Fuck, no.

 

Instead I pull the covers up again, ignoring both the light and the sound. This is my day off. And I choose not to face it.

 

But it won’t stop bugging me. Just keeps banging. For minutes. It can only be one person.

 

I know he won’t leave, so I take my time, pulling on pants and a sweatshirt. I take a quick glance in the mirror before opening the door. He looks about as hungover as I feel. I think he looks like this even when he’s sober.

 

“What? What the fuck is so important that you feel the need to assault my door the entire morning?”

 

“It’s not morning, sweetheart.”

 

“Whatever. What do you want?”

 

“Making sure you’re alive.”

 

“You have my cell number.”

 

“Figured you wouldn’t be answering that either way.”

 

“Well, I’m obviously alive, so…”

 

But instead of taking the hint and leaving, he strolls past me and into the living room, opening the liquor cabinet like he owns the place.

 

“This is scarcer than usual.”

 

“Your point being?”

 

He doesn’t answer, pouring himself a glass of something from my _scarce_ liquor selection. Walking over to the drawer, I take out a coaster and put it on the coffee table before he sits down. He gives me a peculiar look but doesn’t comment.

 

“I saw you come home late last night.” He swigs the entire glass before continuing. “It’s been a lot of that lately.”

 

Fuck. What I do or don’t do is none of his business. “I’m not in the mood for a lecture, Haymitch.”

 

“That’s not why I’m here. I’m done giving lectures to kids who don’t give a fuck.”

 

“Why are you here then?”

 

“The refreshments.”

 

“Bullshit.”

 

“What happened to loverboy?” he asks casually.

 

So he’s noticed Peeta’s absence. But I do _not_ want to discuss this.

 

“Didn’t work out.”

 

“Why?”

 

I take a loud breath, trying to convey my unwillingness to talk about Peeta.

 

“Every person in my life that I love eventually leaves. It’s just the nature of things.” I don’t blame Peeta for leaving me, but it doesn’t change the fact that he did. Or that I deserved it.

 

“ _I’m_ still here.”

 

I huff.

 

He holds up both his hands, the glass still in one of them. “My point is, are you sure people are leaving you? Maybe it’s _you._ Maybe _you_ push them away. You should talk to someone about that.”

 

“Get the fuck out of my house, Haymitch.”

 

He’s got some nerve, coming here unannounced only to insult me.

 

“Fine, but you know I’m right. You wouldn’t get so upset otherwise.”

 

He _is_ right, and I hate him for it.

 

“Get out.”

 

* * *

 

Burying myself in work actually paid off. It wasn’t my intention, but I managed to get a lot of stuff done on a paper I’ve been working on for quite some time. I have to send it to my supervisor before we can have it peer reviewed, but it’s mostly finished.

 

My desk phone rings. Not many people have this number, so it’s probably the receptionist.

 

“Katniss Everdeen.”

 

“Katniss, dear,” Ms. Trinket greets me. “There’s someone here to see you, but she doesn’t seem to have an appointment.”

 

“Who is it?”

 

“A Ms. Delilah Cartwright.”

 

_Delly?_ What does she want? To gloat?

 

“Did she tell you why she’s here?”

 

“No, but she seems really nice.” _I’ll bet._ “Maybe you should just come down and talk to her. She seems eager to see you.”

 

I have no desire to talk to Delly, so it’s only out of curiosity that I agree to come down to the entrance hall. Honestly, I wonder if she has any news about Peeta, because I want to know how he is.

 

When I get there, she and Ms. Trinket seem deep in conversation. They’re both obnoxiously chatty, so I’m not surprised.

 

“Delly,” I interrupt them. They both stop talking, turning their heads to me.

 

I can’t read Delly’s face. She still has a smile on her lips, but when she spots me it doesn’t reach her eyes. I don’t know what to make of that, but I don’t know her, so maybe it’s nothing.

 

“Hey, Katniss.”

 

“Hey.”

 

“Do you have a minute?”

 

“Yeah, we can sit over here.” I gesture to one of the benches close to the entrance, and she takes a seat.

 

“She talks a lot,” she starts, nodding to Ms. Trinket. I have to suppress my instinct to point out the irony of her statement, but I guess she’s trying to defuse the tension.

 

“Yeah.” I clear my throat, urging her to continue.

 

“I guess you weren’t expecting a visit from me, huh?”

 

“Uhm, no. Not really.” I will not lead this conversation. She came to see _me._

 

She puts her hand over mine, and it feels unexpectedly comforting. “Katniss, I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye, but I love Peeta and I think you do too.” She’s right—I still love him. “And these past months he’s been miserable. Nothing seems to cheer him up.”

 

I don’t know how much he’s told Delly about our break-up, so I don’t really know how to respond to that. “Why are you telling me this?”

 

“I want my best friend back. And _I_ obviously can’t make that happen.” She looks down at her hands. “When you guys were together he was alive. Now, he’s a shell of what he used to be.”

 

“I don’t know what he told you, Delly, but he doesn’t want to be with me. He made that pretty clear.”

 

“But he still loves you!” It must be killing her to say that. Even if she’s wrong.

 

“No, he doesn’t.”

 

She hesitates, taking a deep breath. I don’t know if it’s because she thinks I’m right or because I’m wrong. “He’s having an exhibition tomorrow. You should come.”

 

“Does he know you’re here?”

 

“No. But please come. Bring my best friend back. You’re the only one who can.”

 

I don’t know if my heart should swell or feel incredibly sad about that. “I don’t know.”

 

“Please, Katniss. He wants you to come. I know he does.” _I highly doubt that._

 

She’s so sincere that I don’t want to let her down. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

 

“That’s all I’m asking. I’ll put you on the guest list.” She pauses. “And if you don’t come, I won’t tell him.”

 

“Okay.” It’s a relief, knowing that if I decide not to come he won’t take it personally. Because it’s not. This is all on me. And I don’t know what good it would do for us to see each other.

 

* * *

 

I don’t want to go. Yes, I do want to go. I want to see him. But what can either of us say at this point? Nothing that would change anything, at least. I will probably only end up more miserable than I was before. He doesn’t love me anymore. But it must have taken a lot for Delly to come to me yesterday and tell me the things she told me. Could there be any truth to it?

 

When I open my closet I realize I only one thing to wear. It’s the same dress I wore when we first met. No, I can’t wear that. Instead, I opt for a skirt and blouse. That’s fancy enough, right? I’m still contemplating whether or not to go when I put on my makeup. Even in the car I consider more than once turning around and skipping the whole thing. But who am I kidding? Of course I want to see him. I’m too selfish not to.

 

The exhibition is held at the same venue as last time. I get the strange feeling of deja vu when I approach the entrance. But this time it’s not because of the number of people in that restricted area; it’s because of one person in particular. I have no one here to make sure I’m okay, but I manage by myself. The room is pretty much the same; the furnishing are similar, except for the art.

 

When Delly spots me she gives me a sad smile. To be honest, I don’t know if she actually wanted me to come, but she seemed pretty determined when she came to see me.

 

“You came.”

 

“Yes. Does he know I’m here?”

 

“I don’t think so. I didn’t tell him.”

 

It’s not difficult to spot Peeta. He’s surrounded by a group of people, effortlessly breezing through a conversation. His suit is a dark gray, and he opted to leave the top button of his shirt open in lieu of a tie. I like it.

 

But I can’t stand here staring, so I pry my eyes away from him and take my time to look at his art. I’ve seen some of it, but much is new. _Looks like the bachelor life made him very productive._ Is he even still a bachelor?

 

It feels awkward. Not that I don’t appreciate his artwork, because it’s all gorgeous, but that’s not why I’m here. And it’s not like I can walk right up to him like some old acquaintance. This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come.

 

Trying to avoid the crowd, I find the hidden nook where we had our first real conversation. I’m half expecting to find the same painting hanging there, but of course it isn’t. It’s empty.

 

I know he’s here even before I turn around. He’s standing in the exact spot where I bumped into him on that day. But behind his blue eyes I don’t see the same safety I felt then. It’s sadness. Loneliness. I know because mine look the same every time I see myself in the mirror.

 

I don’t know how long we stand there before he speaks. “You came.” God, I’ve missed his voice.

 

“You knew I was here?”

 

“I noticed the second you walked into the room.” He pauses. “I notice everything about you.” His words break my heart. He still hurts, and it kills me to know that I’m the reason. I don’t know how to respond to that. Do I pour out my heart to him? Tell him how I can’t stop thinking about him, and how much I still love him? No, I can’t do that to him. He _will_ get over this. He _has_ to.

 

So I change the subject. “Delly didn’t want you to ‘show your talent?’”

 

“Yes.” He steps aside, gesturing to the middle of the room. _There it is._ Even from this distance the intensity of it still strikes me.

 

Then I connect the dots. “You’re selling it?” I don’t know why I’m so upset by it. It’s _his_ painting. He can do whatever he wants with it.

 

“Already did.”

 

“Why?”

 

He drags his hand through his hair. “It’s ah… It’s too many memories. I need to move on.”

 

It’s a mistake. I know it is. He’ll regret it. He doesn’t realize it now, but later on he _will_ regret it. But I lost the right to give him any advice when I decided to cut him out of the most difficult decision of my life. _Our_ life.

 

“Okay.” I pull on the hem of my blouse, not knowing what to do with my hands or what to say next. Peeta’s an expert at this, not me.

 

“Peeta!” a familiar voice barks from behind him, and it’s not long until Rye slings one of his arms around Peeta’s shoulders. “Don’t you have anything non-alcoholic for Johanna? Like a juice box or something,” he snickers. His smile falters when he sees me.

 

“Dickhead. It’s a wonder your brothers haven’t beaten the shit out of you yet,” Johanna booms as she, too, comes around the corner. She’s smaller than last time I saw her so she must’ve given birth.

 

“They tried.”

 

Usually Peeta would continue the bickering, but I guess my presence kills the mood.

 

Peeta breaks the awkward silence. “Yeah, I think I have something,” he mutters as he walks away, leaving me alone with Johanna and Rye. Johanna still hates my guts, obviously, but Rye only looks surprised that I’m here.

 

“I’m gonna…” I say, pointing to another part of the room, and quickly walk past them. I don’t know what to say. What _could_ I say? We have nothing to talk about. Our only connection is Peeta, and now I don’t have that anymore, so what’s the point?

 

I give myself another five minutes to look around before I leave. It’s not difficult to avoid Peeta, because there’s always someone who wants to talk to him, and he’s the center of attention all the time. He told me once that this is his least favorite part of what he does, but if I didn’t know any better I’d think he loved this. He makes time for everyone and knows exactly how to lead the conversation without being too forward.

 

Just when I decide to leave, I spot Aaron coming out from one to the doors that leads to the back. He’s carrying a newborn in his arms—Peeta’s niece or nephew. Peeta’s demeanor changes instantly when he sees the baby. It’s subtle, but his smile is pure love at the sight of his brother’s child. He takes it from Aaron’s arms, giving it a peck on the nose while a tiny hand grabs his index finger.

 

This is how I’ll remember him. Happy and surrounded by those he loves.

 

I make a point to seek Delly out before I leave. She only had good intentions when she came to see me, inviting me here, and I thank her for it. She made a mistake once, but she’s not a bad person. And I can’t fault her for wanting more than friendship from Peeta. You can’t choose who you love.

 

* * *

 

I can’t be hearing right, so I ignore it. The sound of my shoes clicking against the pavement in the parking lot must distort what I’m hearing.

 

“Katniss!”

 

No. That was definitely my name. And I know _that_ voice. I don’t have time to turn around before his hand is on my shoulder. _It feels so good._ His warmth spreads from my shoulder directly to my heart. But I can’t build up this dream again only for it to go up in flames, burning us both.

 

“Let me go.”

 

He retracts his hand as I turn around. “I can’t.”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“I can’t. I tried, Katniss. I really tried.” He drags his hand through his hair, his shoulders slumped and his eyes tired. “Can we…? Can we talk?” He pauses, taking a breath. “I can’t leave now, but later tonight?”

 

I shouldn’t. I really shouldn’t. “Okay.”

 

He takes out his keys, removing one of them. “Here, take this. I can use Rye’s spare.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

“I can be there by ten. Is that alright?”

 

“Sure.” What the hell am I doing? I can’t go down this path again. I’ll only end up hurting myself. Again. And Peeta. But I can’t stop myself. I take his key and promise to be there tonight when he gets home.

 

* * *

 

It looks exactly the same. I don’t know what I’d expected, but there’s no significant change to his apartment compared to when we were together. I steal a glance into his bedroom. It doesn’t seem like another woman has been here. At least not recently. How _would_ it look?

 

I want to take a look in his studio, but don’t. He trusted me with the key to his home, and I’m not going to break that trust by invading his space. I know he uses it for his personal pieces, and I won’t be sneaking a peek.

 

It feels weird. Being back here. Like I’m an imposter, even though I know I’m not. His words are on repeat in my mind. Why can’t he let me go? Does he _want_ to? Do _I_ want him to?

 

I’m idly flipping through the channels on the tv when the sound of keys jingling outside causes all my nerves to rush to my belly, leaving me with an unpleasant tingling feeling. I turn the tv off. Should I stay put? Should I get up to greet him? What the fuck do I do? I shouldn’t have agreed to come here. Nothing good can come from this. Grabbing my purse from the table, I decide to make up some excuse for me to leave, but the words catch in my throat the second he comes through the door.

 

How can he still have this power over me? A single glance, and I’m completely at his mercy.

 

“Hey.”

 

“Hey.”

 

“You’re leaving?”

 

“No, uhm…”

 

“Can I get you anything?”

 

“Uhm… No, thanks. I can’t stay too long.”

 

“Oh. Okay.”

 

“It’s just that Sanders is home by himself so…”

 

Peeta walks past me, the warmth that always radiates from him catching me off-guard. “How is he?” he asks casually, opening the fridge and taking a swig of a water bottle.

 

“He’s fine.” I put my purse back down. “But that’s not what you wanted to talk about.”

 

“No.” He gestures for the couch in the living room, and I take a seat.

 

His hand on mine takes me by surprise, but I don’t pull away. I miss him. And I hate being so alone.

 

He breaths in and out through his nose before speaking. “I want to apologize.”

 

I want to interrupt him and tell him that he has nothing to apologize for, but something tells me that he needs to get this off his chest. “I blamed you for everything that went wrong, and I shouldn’t have. It took me some time to realize it, but I made you out to be exactly like Cashmere, and that was unfair of me. I’m sorry.”

 

I don’t know what to say. As usual, I can’t form my thoughts into words.

 

“You were hurt,” is all I can muster, squeezing his hand.

 

“That’s not an excuse.”

 

Yes, it is. Even if he had been completely wrong about his assumption, he’s allowed to lash out. I hurt him. I know I did. To be honest, I was surprised he didn’t break up with me on the spot when he found out.

 

“It doesn’t matter now,” is all I tell him. What’s done is done.

 

“It does. It matters if…” He cuts himself off, apparently struggling with what to say.

 

“If what?” _Where is he going with this?_

 

It seems difficult for him to find the right words. This is not like him at all. “If it means that what we had is salvageable.”

 

Is he saying what I think he’s saying? Does he want to try again?

 

“Do you want it to be?”

 

“Katniss, I’ve been miserable these past few months. I’ve been running on autopilot, surviving but not living. My life isn’t the same without you in it. It’s so much fucking worse.”

 

His words are comforting, but knowing how much I messed him up is heartbreaking. But I can’t focus on me right now. “I’m so sorry for everything.”

 

“I know you are. Neither of us is perfect; I know that. But I’m willing to work on it.” He pauses. “ _Together._ I shouldn’t have cut you out like that. I should’ve been there for you. I—”

 

“Peeta. You didn’t do anything wrong. I was the one who kept you out of the loop, and I should’ve told you. I knew it then, but I was too much of a coward to tell you. You were right. I have stuff I need to work on, but I don’t want to do it alone.”

 

His eyes light up a little. Those eyes that I used to think held only goodness, but now they reveal life and all the imperfections that come with it. And that’s even more beautiful. I can’t believe I chose to withhold such an important part of my—our—life from him. If he’s willing to give me the chance, I’ll always be truthful to him.

 

“Thank you,” he whispers. I don’t know why he’s thanking me; I should be kissing his feet for giving me another chance.

 

“I’d do anything for you, Peeta.” I hesitate before continuing, because I’m afraid of putting myself out there like that. But he needs to know. I won’t be keeping him out my life or my feelings again. “I love you.”

 

He smiles. It’s genuine, but he doesn’t say it back. That’s okay. If and when he’s ready I know he’ll tell me.

 

“I should head back home. I can’t leave Sanders alone for too long.”

 

“Right,” he says, walking me to the door. He takes my coat, helping me put it on. I turn around, his hands still lingering on my arms. “Can I… Can I kiss you?”

 

His cheeks are flustered, his eyes full of innocence. It’s what I fell in love in the first place, and there’s only one answer to his question. “Yes.”

 

His hands move up my shoulders, cupping my cheeks and pulling me to him. I rest my hands on his chest, revelling in the opportunity to feel him again. He slides his lips along mine. I want to thrust my tongue into his mouth, but I let him set the pace. When he nibbles on my bottom lip I’m addicted to him all over again; he tastes like wine. It’s intoxicating. My hands glide up his shoulders, my fingers skating over his shirt. This is what I want. _He_ is what I want. And I’ll happily spend every day of my life proving that to him. If he’ll let me.

 

There’s a subtle smile on his lips as he pulls away. “I’ll call you.”

 

I can’t help but make the connection to our first date—our first kiss. “You know what that’s code for, right?”

 

His smile grows a little wider. “Yeah. I’ll text you. Better?”

 

“Definitely.” I’d take anything he’s willing to give me. I’m feeling bold, so I give him a chaste kiss on the cheek. “Or I’ll call you.”

 

“I’d like that.”

 

“Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you like this story, please drop me a line and tell me what you think. I'm maxwellandlovelace on tumblr.


	19. XIX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. This is it. The final chapter. My first completed multi- chapter fic.
> 
> This story has been in the making for two years. It’s the first fanfic I started writing and it’s been one hell of a ride! Both ups and downs (but mostly ups). I would like to thank everyone who has left nice comments or reached out to me in any way. I read them all and I always smile reading them!
> 
> But above all. Caryn (papofglencoe) You have been there with me through thick and thin, and because of you, this story better. You have no idea how grateful I am for your help, betaing, and support, but most of all I value you as my friend. I love you, girl! <3

I drive home on new tires. After Peeta’s subtle and not-so-subtle insinuations I finally let myself get talked into changing the tires of my car. I was tempted to take him up on his offer and let him do it, but now is a busy time for him. His last exhibition was a smashing success, and with it came a ton of commissions. 

 

Sanders is resting on the doormat when I open the door. Sometimes I consider getting one of those cameras inside the house. Just to see if he stays on this mat every time I leave the house or if he only does it when he hears me pulling up the driveway. I take him out for a shorter walk than usual because Peeta is coming over later. He has his own key, but I want to be home when he arrives.

 

I spare a glance to the kitchen on my way to the bedroom. I  _ should _ start preparing the dinner, saving Peeta the trouble of doing everything. I’ve stopped asking to help him when he’s here, because he always declines, claiming he wants to do it. I have a difficult time believing that anyone  _ likes _ chopping vegetables. It’s boring as fuck. Besides, I’m not as good with the knife as he is. So I opt for a nap instead.

 

Despite being apart for months, I never got used to sleeping alone again. I missed him every time I woke up in this bed that’s always too big when he’s not in it. It’s  _ still _ too big, because I’m alone when I wake up. I’d thought Peeta would be here by now, but there’s no sign of him, no sound coming from the kitchen. There is, however, a text from him.

 

_ Peeta: Sorry. Can’t come over tonight. Rain check? _

 

His words send a wave of worry down my chest, settling in my stomach. Something is wrong. I know it is. It’s just a text, but there’s a heavy tone to it. I can’t put my finger on what it is. It’s just… off.

 

But instead of continuing to wonder about it, I call him. He answers after the third ring. “Hey.” His voice is raspy, as if he’d been sleeping.

 

“Hey. What’s wrong?”

 

Silence. “Nothing is wrong. I just…” He pauses again, exhaling. “It’s just difficult.” He  _ is _ upset—I can practically see his elbows resting on his thighs and his head hanging above his knees.

 

I don’t want to make him do this over the phone. “Are you at home?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“I’ll be there in fifteen.”

 

“Katniss, you don’t have to—”

 

“Yes, I do.” It’s killing me to hear him this upset, and being apart makes me completely powerless to help him. I need to do this, not only for his sake, but for mine too.

 

“Okay.”

 

We end the call, and I immediately get Sanders in the car and drive over to Peeta’s apartment. When we got back together we realized we both have issues we need to work on. So instead of thinking everything would work itself out on its own we decided we each needed professional help. We go to different therapists because we have different issues. Maybe some day we’ll go together, but we’re not there yet. I don’t press him after every one of his sessions, and he extends the same courtesy to me, but I can’t help wondering what caused this sadness in him today.

 

I let myself into his apartment, nearly tripping over Sanders as I enter. I’d expected to find Peeta in his studio, but he’s sitting on the couch in the living room. He doesn’t even pry his eyes from whatever he’s looking at.

 

“Hey.” His voice is still hoarse.

 

“Hey.” I kick off my shoes as Sanders walks over to Peeta.

 

“Hey, buddy.”

 

Sanders jumps up on the couch when I approach them. Then I realize why Peeta’s so upset. The photos of Charlie are scattered all over the table. Sitting next to him I slide my hand over his shoulder. He grabs it, squeezing my fingers. “Thank you for coming.”

 

“You want to talk about it?”

 

“I don’t know what to say. It won’t change anything.”

 

“Not for her. But maybe for you.”

 

He squeezes my fingers again before speaking. “I miss her.” His voice breaks at the last word.

 

Instinctively, I pull him into my arms, and he snakes his hands around my waist, his head leaning on my shoulder. He doesn’t have to say anything else. I know. He’s never admitted to  _ missing _ her before. Since he never really got to meet her he didn’t think he had the right. So for him to acknowledge this is a huge deal. I don’t know if he realizes it, but the pictures on the table prove how far he’s come. He’s finally grieving, something he’s never allowed himself to do before.

 

There’s not really anything I can do for him now. I know the feeling of hopelessness and that there’s nothing anyone can say to change it, and he deserves more than platitudes from me. Instead I let him lean on me, trying to send whatever strength I have to him. But hugging him like this, sifting my fingers through his hair, makes me me feel useful in a way I never have before.

 

I don’t know how long we sit like that until I speak. “I had an appointment today too.”

 

“Want to talk about it?”

 

It’s difficult, to face my own shortcomings. But it’s the only way to deal with it. And despite it being so hard, I’ve learned that it actually helps to talk about it. Besides, I made a promise to Peeta, and I intend on keeping it. Not only for the sake of it, but because I’ve come to understand that I can rely on him. Fully.

 

“Yes.”

 

I can feel him swallowing, but he doesn’t say anything, letting me do the talking.

 

“We talked about expectations. Apparently, I always expect the worst. From everyone and everything.”

 

“Do  _ you _ think so?”

 

“I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it that way. I guess I don’t see the point in getting my hopes up.”

 

He exhales, threading his fingers through my hair. “Why? You don’t think you deserve it?”

 

“Yes. No, I… I’ll just end up getting disappointed.”

 

He’s silent, but his body is tense. “Were you… Were you disappointed in  _ me? _ ”

 

“No.”

 

“You should be.” He pauses. “I should’ve known something was off. Looking back, I can see the signs so clearly. How you slowly drifted away, and I was too fucking self-absorbed to notice. I was the one who was supposed to be there for you, and I let you down. What happened was as much my fault as it was yours.”

 

“I should have told you.”

 

“Yeah, but I understand why you didn’t.” His arms envelop me, his fingers tracing patterns on my back. “I’m sorry.”

 

I want to argue with him. What happened was not his fault or his decision, and he knows that I don’t blame him. But if that’s how he’s feeling I shouldn’t be telling him he can’t. He doesn’t need my forgiveness. He needs to forgive himself.

 

So instead of saying anything I give him a quick kiss on the lips, and he rewards me with a smile. We’re going to be okay. I know we are.

 

Letting his closeness soothe me, I lean into him. His touch has always put me at ease, but this is different. I’m relaxed in a way I don’t think I’ve ever been before, and that’s all his doing. No,  _ our _ doing. We’ve built this together. 

 

I know moving forward won’t always be rainbows and unicorns, but that’s not what I want. I want the real thing. Real life. Real love. And only Peeta can give me that.

 

* * *

 

I wake up somewhere else. Peeta’s lying next to me, deep in sleep, but he must have carried me from the couch because we’re both in his bed. The early morning light seeping in through the blinds lets me know it’s about dawn.

 

When I look over at Peeta’s sleeping form it’s the soft features on his face that strike me. I don’t think I’ve seen him this relaxed before, not even when he’s sleeping. There’s always been a slight furrow in his brow or subtle twitching behind his eyelids. But I don’t see that now.

 

Yesterday was nothing other than a display of his strength, the ability to let himself be vulnerable and grieve for the daughter he lost. Cashmere not telling him about her doesn’t make his emotions less valid, and I’m so proud of him for finally starting to really process Charlie’s death.

 

Our legs are tangled together, and my head is on his chest, slowly rising and falling with his every breath. My fingers trace the outside of his t-shirt, over his shoulder where the warmth I always associate with him radiates. Warmth and compassion. Two things I’d never expect to feel again. But since Peeta came into my life I cannot go back to how it was before. He’s shown me that. He’s shown me how much I need those things, and he’s willing to give them.

 

And hopefully someday I’ll feel deserving of them.

 

I press a light kiss to his cheek. Then another. Another. My lips travel down his throat, but my journey ends in the nook of his neck, where his clothing prevents me from going further south.

 

“Don’t stop.”

 

“You’re awake?” I lift my head to look at him.

 

A subtle smile spreads on his lips. “I didn’t want to interrupt you.”

 

“You didn’t,” I say, sliding my hands underneath his shirt.

 

Before I know it, he’s pinned me down under him, my hands over my head. I’m still in yesterday’s clothes, but I hadn’t noticed until now, when Peeta’s hovering above me and they’re suddenly way too uncomfortable. I want to feel him without anything between us. But he doesn’t seem to care, his hands rubbing me through my pants. “Good?”

 

“God, yes.”

 

His lips find my neck as he skillfully undoes my jeans and slides them down my hips, and I awkwardly kick them off. His fingers swiftly dip underneath my panties, and when he finds my clit, pressing down on it, there’s nothing I can do to keep my approval silent.

 

He keeps rubbing me, his tongue licking its way up my throat. Cheeks. Lips. Probing for entrance I eagerly grant him. When two of his fingers push inside me I groan into his mouth. I can never get enough of this. Enough of  _ him. _ My hips rock against his hand, seeking sweet release.

 

He licks my earlobe, and the grunt that leaves my mouth would embarrass me if I wasn’t so fucking turned on. I need to come, and Peeta seems as eager to get me there. The circulating motion of his thumb and his fingers stroking me inside has turned me into a panting mess. Needing to get closer. Craving to get there. I’m almost there. I’m there. I’m… The orgasm washes through me in several waves of pleasure as he keeps working me. It’s glorious, and I never want to come back from this wonderful place he brought me.

 

When I eventually do come down to my senses he kisses the tip of my nose, and hugs me from behind, spooning me.

 

“We should get some sleep.”

 

I feel the evidence of his arousal against my ass, but he seems unaware of it, or he doesn’t care. So we fall asleep like that, his arms warming me. Like it’s supposed to be.

 

* * *

 

Despite waking up at dawn, I’m fairly well-rested when I open my eyes again in late morning. Maybe not  _ despite _ of. More like  _ because _ of. Peeta’s still sleeping behind me. But instead of waking him, I silently get up. I’m still in the same shirt as yesterday, and it clings to me in all the wrong places. So I shuck it off, going for a pair of sweatpants and a t-shirt laying on a chair.

 

Sanders is still on the couch when I enter the living room, and he lifts his head as if to say good morning. I take him for a quick walk, and when I come back Peeta’s still not up. The photos are still on the coffee table. I don’t know what he wants to do with them, so I put them back in the box and leave it on the table in case he wants to put them away again.

 

He’s awake though, so I join him on the bed, resting my head on his shoulder.

 

“Good morning.”

 

“Yes it is,” he says, tucking me closer to him.

 

“You wanna talk about last night?” I don’t want to pry about his therapy session, but he needs to know that if he wants to talk about it, he’ll always have a listener in me.

 

“We… ah… I haven’t really talked about Charlie with her before. About her life, I mean. Only about what happened in D.C., because those are the only memories I have.”

 

His words hit me hard because this whole situation is so fucking sad. But I don’t say anything, instead letting him continue.

 

“So she suggested that I create new memories. Happy memories. So I took out the photos to see if I could… I don’t know… Find some happiness in them. And I realized that I wasn’t really angry anymore. I  _ miss _ her.” His voice is low, like he’s afraid of admitting it.

 

I stroke his cheek. “Whatever you’re feeling… There is no wrong way to do this, Peeta.”

 

He takes my hand, placing a soft kiss on my fingers. “I realized something else too.” He pauses. “How much I admire you.”

 

“What?”

 

“You dealt with this kind of loss when you were so young, and you had no one. I’ve always had my family but you… You’re the strongest person I know.”

 

Tears form at the corners of my eyes, but I blink them away. This wave of love that Peeta sends my way overwhelms me, and I don’t know what to say. So instead I raise my head, giving him a kiss on the lips. We’re going to be okay. I know we are.

 

I poke his chest with my finger. “Get up. We should take a walk.”

 

“I thought you already took Sanders out.”

 

“No,” I lie. “Quit stalling and get your ass out of bed.”

 

“Is this how it’s going to be? You bossing me around?” A smile tugs at the corners of his mouth.

 

“Get used to it.” He snorts and sits up on the side of the bed. I take advantage and slide an arm around him from behind, trailing wet kisses down his neck. “You know I’ll make it up to you later.”

 

“Looking forward to that.”

 

It’s not until we’re outside that Peeta asks me, “Okay, where to?”

 

“I don’t know,” I say casually, but pull him in the direction of his studio. When we reach the entrance of it he raises his eyebrows. He’s onto me, but I guess I can’t keep it a secret anymore.

 

“So, I might have had ulterior motives with this walk.”

 

His lips turn up to a smirk. “You don’t say?”

 

“Just go with it. Please.”

 

“Okay.”

 

I drag him through the large studio and to his office. The sounds of our feet hitting the hardwood floor almost feel like a countdown. To  _ what _ I don’t know, because I have no idea how this will play out.

 

“Open it,” I tell him before he nudges the door. I quickly grab his hand in mine before we go in together. 

 

Inside is his painting. The one that holds so many emotions, both good and bad. The one he poured his heart into. The one that brought us together. He needs it; I know he does. At one point he will move on from the grief, and I think this will help him.

 

I only hope I’m not being too forward, that this won’t open up wounds that haven’t truly healed. But in my heart, I don’t think it will. He’s strong, and he’s ready for this. He needs it. I think I need it too.

 

I force myself to look at his face when he sees it. He’s confused, but other than that his face reveals nothing. I squeeze his hand, as much for my strength as for his. He stands like a statue for a couple of seconds, and I don’t dare interrupt him from whatever he’s thinking. Instead I put my other hand on his arm.

 

_ I love you, I love you, I love you, and this is my way of showing you. _

 

Finally, he moves. Letting go of my hand he approaches the painting, as if inspecting it, making sure it’s real.

 

“Where did you get his?” he asks, dragging his fingers along the edge. His voice is no more than a breath.

 

“I ah…  talked to Delly.”

 

“When?” he whispers.

 

“At your art show. I asked her for the contact details of the buyer and bought it back.”

 

“Why?”

 

Here it goes. “I think you want to have this.”

 

He turns around, his eyes piercing me and keeping me rooted to the ground. I think it’s the only thing keeping me from falling. I can’t read him. Is he angry? Happy? Sad? Maybe I crossed some sort of line.

 

“Peeta, I didn’t mean to—”

 

His arms envelop me before I get to finish the sentence. I forget what I was going to say. All I can think of is him. His strong embrace, and how lucky I am to be able to feel it. No one else’s arms have made me feel this safe.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“So you’re not angry?”

 

“Why would I be?”

 

“I was afraid it wasn’t my business.”

 

“Of course it’s your business. I want to share everything with you, including this.”

 

I stroke my fingers along his spine, my cheek against his shoulder. “I want to share everything with you, too.”

 

His body slumps a little. “I’ll pay you back. You don’t have to spend money on this.”

 

I kiss his neck. “Yes. I  _ want _ to.”

 

I expect him to argue, but instead he slides his hand through my hair. “I love you.” The sweetest words that have ever come out of his mouth. 

 

“I love you, too.”

 

He dips his head and captures my lips in a kiss. I stand on my toes to reach his mouth, and our tongues meet. He’s warm, soft, safe. He’s everything. 

 

Locking my hands behind his neck, I deepen the kiss, pulling him closer to me. His closeness sends a warm feeling through me like I never felt before. We’ve overcome so much—much more than I ever thought anyone could. It hasn’t been a smooth ride, and it probably won’t be in the future either. Neither of us is fully healed yet; we struggle with our nightmares and insecurities. But whenever he needs me I’ll be there for him. And I know he’ll be there for me.

 

We have each other.

 

We will be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it. If you enjoyed this story, please drop me a line, either here or on tumblr (maxwellandlovelace).


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